Superman: The Lost Years
by JasonSpidey
Summary: Based on the Smallville Superman. We know where he's been, we know where he's going, but what about inbetween? The years of Clark Kent's life that haven't been defined...Note: the story doesn't cling religiously to the show.
1. Sprint

Disclaimer: I don't own DC Comics, Warner Brothers, or any of their characters; however, the story idea is my own, and may not be reproduced without asking me first. But I'll probably say yes, so just e-mail me.

The Lost Years

It felt good to run.

He hadn't run in a long time, it seemed like, not just for the sake of running. To run, not because he had to, but just because he wanted to. The ground thumped beneath his feet with each footstep, loud as gunfire but simultaneously quiet in comparison to the world behind him. As he sucked in the sweet air, he listened closer to the world around him, and the sounds that had been barely audible a moment before seemed to increase in amplitude and fidelity a hundredfold. A bird cooed in a tree a mile to his left, declaring his place in the vastness of the savannah. A trickle of water gurgled through a streambed two hundred yards off to his right, the noise a defiant gesture to the cloudless skies above. The roar of a lion was too far off for even he to tell the distance from the animal to his ear, but he guessed at least a hundred miles. And that was just the noise that he first heard; shifting his ears even more, he listened harder – and heard everything. Just for a moment, as it was too much for even him – but that was why he liked it, just to remind himself that there were some things even he couldn't do.

He glanced behind himself, over his shoulder, back at the village a half-mile behind him. No one was looking his way; _not that it'll matter in a minute_, he thought to himself with a wry grin. He swung his head back around and began running faster.

And faster.

And faster.

He was roaring now, cutting across the grasslands with speed its cheetahs could barely match.

And he wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

He floored his mental throttle, and leapt forward like a rocket. Each step doubled his speed as the ground melted to a blur beneath him. The air pushed against his chest, harder and harder as he accelerated, until with a BANG it fell aside, only to start all over again. Now even his ears couldn't hear anything behind him. Now the world to his sides was becoming harder to see, trees and elephants and brush blending together into a blur. But he wouldn't slow down, not as long as the sun shone bright and he could see ahead.

Looking far off into the distance, he could see a small village of natives at least six or seven miles off. He watched for a moment as the women carried food atop their heads, as the men selected a cow to slaughter, as the children frolicked and played, all as if moving through gelatin. He smiled as for a second, he was brought back to a happier time in his life, back in his hometown ten thousand miles away. A place ten minutes away for him, but as impossible to go to as the home he had never known. He shook his head of the image as he banked away from the village – the few seconds he had been thinking had nearly halved his distance to it, and he had no desire to harm them with an errant sonic boom.

He headed east, pouring on the speed again as the memories that the small village had brought to mind flowed back against his will. Times as a boy playing tag in his parents' field with his best friend. Summers filled with the innocence of youth. Learning that he was far more and far less than he had ever thought he was when his father told him the greatest secret he would ever hold. Saving a young man from a sports car rapidly filling with water, ripping the roof off with his hands to pull the man free. (Ever since then, he'd wished that he had just opened the door.) Lying under a tree with the most beautiful girl he had ever known, feeling more complete than he ever had in his 16 years of living. Running away from his destiny to a great city, only to have his fathers show him the truth. Being torn from the ones he loved into an inky blackness by a man he had never known. Feeling what it was like to fly. And watching his world fall down around him.

Seeing his best friend betray him.

Seeing a man who hated him try to destroy everything he cared for.

Seeing the only girl he had ever loved lying broken on the street, like a toy some child had dropped from a building. Listening as her eyes fluttered for the last time in front of him, her heart beat its last. It sounded like a baseball landing softly in a worn catcher's mitt.

He threw the memories aside and sprinted forward, and the world bowed down around him as he moved as fast as he ever had away from everything. He screamed, a raw, bestial cry that wasn't meant for this world. The world seemed to be moving by faster than he could comprehend, yet he kept running on instinct.

Until he ran out of continent.

He slammed on the brakes, his left foot leading as he dug two deep trails through the soil, onto the beach and into the waves, where he stopped ankle-deep in the water. It steamed around his boots. Behind him, a thousand feet of earth was turned to glass in a straight line pointing right towards him. In front, the Indian Ocean stretched out forever, empty and peaceful. But even he couldn't run on water.

_After all_, thought Clark Kent as he lifted himself up into the sky for the return trip, _I'm not God. I'm just extraordinary._


	2. Avenge

Chapter 2

Clark touched down on the roof of the building just as the last glow of sunlight disappeared over the horizon behind him, coming to a full stop a few inches above the roof and hovering for a moment before cutting his power and dropping straight down. He turned off and watched as the red rays shone by the taller buildings to the west. When he'd first come to Nairobi two weeks before, he'd expected to find a third-world hellhole straight out of Black Hawk Down; therefore, he was pleasantly surprised when what he found was more Metropolis than Mogadishu, with a few buildings that would look quite at home in many of the greater cities of America or Europe. His accommodations, however, were hardly noteworthy; the hostel's rates were low, especially by American standards, but its quality was even lower. _One star my ass,_ Clark had thought to himself as he opened the door, still clutching the Michelin guide in hand as he took in the peeling wallpaper, yellowed mattress, and torn carpeting over stained linoleum. _They should take away stars for this kind of thing._

But it was only his home base, and he wasn't staying long. In fact, Clark had surprised himself at staying there a whole fifteen days already; it was the longest he had stayed in one place in seven months, since he spent a full three-and-a-half weeks working out of St. Thomas. _It's just so beautiful here, it seems foolish to get everything done so quick._ However, he knew his time was running out.

_Tonight, I'm going to do it,_ Clark decided right there on the rooftop as the sky finally lost all trace of the sun. _Enough screwing around – there's work to do._ With that, he pushed open the door on the roof and headed down to collect his things.

"All right, Mr. Kent, that comes to $87 U.S. dollars," the young woman behind the counter said in an accent that Clark could only describe has a few generations away from British as he reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts for his wallet. After a moment of groping for it, he pulled the billfold out and laid the bills dramatically atop his room key on the countertop. The woman smiled as she counted the money.

"So, where you headed now?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the money.

Clark looked up at her as he reached down for his backpack on the floor. "Not really sure. I go where I'm needed."

"What do you do? You part of some aid program or something?"

Clark smiled as he walked to the door. "Something like that."

And with that, he was gone.

Ten blocks and ten minutes later, Clark dipped off the street and swung into a dark alleyway. He glanced around nervously, looking first at the windows and on the roofs then through the walls themselves for any sets of eyes who might take an interest in a tall Caucasian man in an alleyway at nine o'clock at night. _All clear._

Quickly, he lowered his backpack to the ground, pulled out the clothes he kept in the bottom pocket and began to change.

Black jeans for tan shorts. An old blood stain – not his own – was barely visible on the denim in the darkness.

Black long sleeves for red short ones. He fingered the patches of cloth he had sewn over all the bullet holes. It seemed like hundreds.

Black gloves and a black balaclava completed the image.

Clark glanced at his reflection in a piece of shattered glass lying against a wall in the alley; the ambient lighting of the city gave him an evil look. He hated the outfit; he hated having to cover his face, cloaking himself in darkness in order to do the right thing.

_But I was too sloppy with my identity back in Smallville,_ Clark told himself as he always did when he saw himself in the "commando suit," as he'd come to think of it. _I'm not going to let anyone learn what Clark Kent can do again. Never. Not after…last time._

The memories were smashing against the door to his mind, trying to fight their way in – and even he wasn't strong enough to hold them back very long. He shook his head violently to clear the thoughts. _Head in the game, Clark._ He grabbed the backpack and lifted up silently into the air, leaving the ground behind.

_Let's do it._

The reinforced concrete wall of the Presidential Palace crumbled against his shoulder as Clark plowed through at half the speed of sound. Inside, he stopped for a second in surprise as his violent entry was greeted with – nothing. The hallway was deserted.

_No alarms, no guards – for a supreme dictator, this guy's surprisingly confident in his personal safety._ _Either that, or he's just that dumb._ A smile crossed Clark's face, invisible under the mask. _Well, he's about to learn the error of his ways._

Just then, his hyper-sensitive ears heard the _flap-flap _of leather on marble off to his left, followed immediately by frantic yelling in a language of which he wasn't quite sure. He turned, and the thick wall faded to a transparent blue as he peered through it. Behind it, a pair of skeletons sprinted down the halls, large assault rifles floating in their bony hands. As he watched, the two men turned to a door through the wall and threw it open.

The guards screamed at Clark as they quickly brought their guns to their shoulders. He watched coolly as the men jabbered; though he didn't know the language, he understood the tone. He'd heard it before, in half a dozen languages.

_Get on the ground._

_Hands on your head._

_Get down or we will shoot._

Clark smiled under his mask and took a menacing step towards the guards.

Their rifles erupted as the guards cut loose on full automatic.

Clark just kept walking towards them as the bullets rippled off him, bouncing off him like spitballs. He watched as the men's faces fell as their bullets found their mark to no effect, the dawning realization spreading across their faces that the power their weapons gave them was very quickly being drained. He'd seen it all before, too many times to count.

Each of Clark's steps brought him a couple feet closer to the men. Twenty feet. Seventeen. Fourteen. Eleven. Eight. Five. The guns _click-click-click_ed as their banana magazines ran dry. The guards' eyes were twice as big as they had been three seconds earlier.

With lightening speed, Clark reached up, grabbed the rifles by their barrels, yanked them downwards and shoved them backwards into their owners' solar plexes, sending them flying backwards a good ten feet. Clark heard the mushy sound of the stock slamming home to an accompanying whoosh as the air was knocked from the men's lungs. Clark listened closely to make sure the men still had a heartbeat as they lay on the marble, unmoving. Satisfied, he blurred from the room like a shot.

Halfway across the palace, the leader of Kenya, President Matubi, was being torn from his bed by his security forces and rushed across his bedroom to the secret passageway he had specifically designed for an escape in case of emergency when the ten-foot wooden doors at the room's entrance flew backwards from their hinges with a terrifying crash. Everyone whirled at the sound as Clark stood in their place, eyes sweeping the room for his prize.

_Aha,_ he thought as his gaze settled on the small, chubby man in pajamas being sheparded away by two large men in black suits. The man's pale nightwear contrasted with the larger guards' attire, and for a second Clark was reminded of nothing so much as an Oreo cookie. Clark fought the urge to laugh; his efforts were just about to be in vain when he caught sight of all five armed men in the room yanking very large handguns from under their coats. His eyes narrowed as nearly half a dozen Desert Eagles aimed in his direction.

_You want to play?_ _Bring it on._

The first bullets were just whizzing by him as Clark leapt into motion and the world slowed to a crawl. The sound from the guns hit his ears as he ran towards the trio of guards on the right, Magnum rounds tearing holes through the air nearby. The roar of the pistols was smashed into a Doppler-induced high frequency shriek as he closed onto the men as fast as the bullets were traveling in the other direction. Clark dropped his speed for only a moment as he shoved the two men in front back into the third, then kicked back into high gear as the three flew backwards.

The two guards next to the president were still shooting at the now-empty doorframe, something Clark took a tiny bit of pride in as he skidded to a stop directly in front of them – much to their surprise. Three sets of jaws hung loose as the man in black seemed to their eyes not so much to run as to teleport through space from the doorway to directly in front of them.

Clark sized up the two guards. _Whew,_ Clark thought as he looked them up and down. _These guys are big. _The shorter of the two was a good five inches taller than his six-three frame, while either of them looked as though they outweighed him by a good forty pounds.

None of which mattered as Clark effortlessly lifted them off their feet and slammed their heads together two feet above the head of the chubby pajama-clad man, who shrieked and covered his head with his arms as the bodyguards collided. It sounded like coconuts being knocked together. Clark dropped the two men to the floor as his blue eyes turned to the cowering, small man in front of him, who babbled incoherently as he averted his eyes from the masked stranger. _Typical._

Clark reached down and grasped the man by the throat, heaving him up high enough so that his feet dangled well above the Persian rug beneath. Clark glared into the man's eyes.

"President Matubi." His voice had dropped an octave and taken on a gravelly harshness that was the very opposite of his normal Kansas tenor. "You have committed terrible atrocities against the people of this nation. Killed thousands. Raped more. Burned homes and beaten children in the name of power.

"That ends tonight.

"This is a warning to you, Matubi. Tomorrow morning, you will announce to the world that your government is finished, and you will welcome in the United Nations teams to help organize a full and free democratic election. You will do as they say, and obey their orders. If you don't…" Clark's eyes glowed red. "You will suffer far worse than a few broken walls and unconscious guards. That's not a threat. It's a promise. Do you understand?"

The man nodded as fervently as his position would allow.

"Good." Clark released his grip on the man's throat and let him fall.

By the time Matubi crashed to the ground, the man in black was gone.


	3. Dream

Chapter 3

Ten thousand miles and one day away, Jonathan Kent threw his newspaper against the kitchen table with a thwack that echoed throughout the house. His head was throbbing; he rubbed his brow as a sigh of frustration escaped his lips.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.

Attracted by the noise, his wife Martha poked her head into the breakfast nook, a look of motherly concern on her face. "Jonathan? Is everything all right?"

Jonathan looked over at her as he slid the copy of The Daily Planet across the shiny, worn oak. His wife scooped it up, unfolding it and opening it – only to emit a deep sigh as she read the bold font plastered across the top of the page. Her husband studied her reaction as her blue eyes scanned the words: _Kenyan_ _President Matubi Resigns; Says He Will Concede To U.N., Create Democracy._

"This is the fourth time in two months, Martha," Jonathan said as he slumped backwards against his chair.

Martha lowered the paper to look him in the eye. "We don't know that it was Clark, honey."

He shook his head as a desperate chuckle snuck from his mouth. "Come on. A fascist dictator, after twenty years in power, decides to throw in the towel one day and let the United Nations call the shots? We both know that's not gonna happen."

Martha, ever the optimist, stuck to her guns. "Well, maybe there was diplomatic pressure – backroom negotiations, threats of losing trade. It probably happens more than we think."

Jonathan half-heartedly gestured towards the paper in his wife's hands. "Read the second paragraph of the article."

Martha turned her gaze back towards the paper. "A visibly shaken Matubi announced the plan at 8:20 am local time, declaring that "greater forces than he" mandated that he leave office immediately. Simultaneously, a massive military escort had gathered at the presidential palace, with an entire battalion of tanks and infantry assembled within twenty minutes of the announcement," she read, her voice trailing off.

Jonathan smiled, a grim look that showed its owner found no humor in what he heard. "He's rolling across the globe like nothing, Martha. Flipping governments left and right. It's exactly what we had always been afraid of."

Martha Kent sat down in the chair next to her husband and grabbed his hands tightly as he slumped forwards in his chair. Her strong eyes seemed to glow with conviction. "No, Jonathan, it's not. Clark has done nothing but do what he thinks is right. Now I grant you, this is not what we had in mind, but it's what he feels he has to do. He hasn't come out and revealed himself, he hasn't killed anyone-"

"That we know of!"

Martha's face hardened into a scowl. "He has not killed anyone. We taught him that lesson far too well for him to forget it – or worse, disobey it. We brought him up right, Jonathan Kent, and you damn well know it!" She paused to move a strand of hair from her face that had landed there in her moment of emotion. "Clark is only doing what he feels is the right thing to do. He wouldn't do this if he didn't believe that wholeheartedly."

Jonathan sighed again as he looked up at his wife. "I hope you're right."

Martha smiled as she clenched her husband's hands tighter. "I don't need hope. I have faith in our son."

On the other side of the Atlantic, Clark stared out at the ocean from the top of Gibraltar. Far below, he could hear the surf crash against the waves as seagulls cried, picking through the detritus of the shore in an effort to find something to eat. But the ocean was what he was there for. Something about it had always captivated him, though he'd never know what exactly it was. Maybe it was the way it reminded him of home, the endless plains of Kansas stretching off to the horizon. Maybe it reminded him, on some basic level, of the home he'd never known. _I wonder if they even had oceans on Krypton?_ he asked himself as he gazed out at the infinite blue before him. _Probably. It's hard to imagine life without water – and seeing as how I still have to drink, there was probably enough of it to go around._

His eyes dropped down to the folded copy of the Daily Mirror that stuck out of his red backpack. A picture of Matubi walking out of his palace on the cover seemed to stare back at him, haunting him as if knowing how much he hated throwing himself into governmental affairs. _I wonder if they had dictators, either? Probably. But I'd like to think not._

Clark lay back against the warm rock beneath him and closed his eyes. It was one of his favorite things to do when he was bored, to think about what the planet he had come from was actually like. It had started a few weeks after he had learned of his origin from a man in New York City, after he had learned that the name he had been born with was Kal-El, and that he came from a planet called Krypton that had lain 15 light-years away – before it vanished from the universe with a bang.

Ever since then, he liked to think about what his life would have been like if the planet had never blown itself to pieces. He didn't know much about what it was like, only bits and pieces gathered together from Earthly relics and alien artifacts. But he could dream.

_I am lying in a meadow filled with grass that changes color in the moonlight. It shimmers like a rainbow brought to the ground. There's a warm breeze that flows over me from off the sea a few miles away – it smells of salt. Above me are the twin moons – they take up half the sky, they're so huge – only about a quarter-full, so it's not that bright out. There's the sound of a bird, far away – no, not a bird, there are no birds here. Something else. Still beautiful, though…maybe that's all that matters. The grass feels like velvet beneath me. The stars twinkle above, a thousand pinpricks of light, like a blanket above me eaten by moths. And there's one yellow one that stands out…and there's a little blue-green planet floating around her…and in the middle of one of the continents there's a little town where a married couple works on their farm while their natural son watches as he plays with a toy airplane and where a young man happily drives his mother to the courthouse for another day at work and where an auburn-haired girl sits and laughs in a coffee shop with her parents and they talk about her life, how college is going and how much she likes her new boyfriend and how they're all so glad to be together and happy and alive – _

"**No!**" Clark screamed as he snapped himself out of the daydream, hurling himself upright as his fists smashed into the rock beside him and his eyes spat fire in rage, in a hatred for himself and for all the harm he'd done to the ones he'd wanted nothing but the best for!

His breath ran ragged as he pulled himself together. Every time, now, the dream ended the same, no matter what he did. He glanced down at the grapefruit-sized holes in the rock where his fists had broken the rock into dust. Clark scrambled to his feet; he knew he'd been here long enough. He threw his backpack over his shoulder, pausing only to stuff the newspaper into the sack before leaping off into the air, the wind blowing on his face as Gibraltar fell behind at an increasingly rapid rate.

_I'm sorry I failed you, Lana,_ he thought._ I won't let anyone else get hurt when I could have done something again. _


	4. Friends

Chapter 4

Hours later, Clark was still flying across the Atlantic Ocean, lazily guiding himself across the sky. By now it was closing in on night, but the sun hovered nearly motionless above the sky as he flew westwards about as fast as the earth turned. Clark stared at it as he wafted through the clouds.

_Always did like sunsets, _he thought to himself._ Pa always said, there's no easier time to talk to a woman than on the beach at sunset. Not that does me any good right now, anyway._ He sighed deeply. _This is pointless. I'm not getting anything done here feeling sorry for myself. There's gotta be something more constructive for me to do._

Clark pulled himself to an upright stop thirty thousand feet up and reached into his bag for the newspaper. Turning has back into the wind so it wouldn't tear the paper apart in his hands, he opened up the front section and began to read. As he swept the pages rapidly, something caught his eye – a small article, hidden deep on the fourth page. New York City Kidnapping Still Unresolved.

There were probably a thousand things at that time around the world that would have been more suitable for a man with bulletproof skin and an urge to change things. Clark, however, had already made up his mind. _I haven't been back in the U.S. in months; it's probably time to go check in,_ Clark thought as he stowed the newspaper again. _Besides, to be honest I could use somebody to talk to._

It was just after six when Chloe Sullivan waved goodbye to her editor and walked out the front door of the Daily News. The summer sun was just beginning to disappear over the lower buildings of the West Side. She walked quickly, her legs moving at the rate that seems all too natural for the residents of a massive city but incredibly rushed to someone from the Heartland. Despite her internship in Metropolis back in high school, nothing had really prepared her for life in the Big Apple. It took half an hour for her to get back to her apartment from work, between a five-minute walk to the subway, a fifteen-minute subway ride and another ten minutes of walking – this time through one of the more difficult neighborhoods of the city.

It was this part of her commute that she looked forwards to the least, and it was the part she was facing now. Despite the eighty degree temperatures, she shivered a bit as she walked up out of the station and took her bearings as she always did. The smell of creosote assaulted her nostrils as a siren cried far off in the distance, but the immediate area seemed free of potential muggers and rapists. Chloe silently thanked herself that her tuition at NYU included four years of a dorm room during class – which meant she only had to walk this route during the summer, when it was light longer. She turned eastwards to head towards her apartment –

-only to come face-to-chest with a man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. In panic, her eyes raced up the man's blue shirt to see –

"Clark?!?" Her tone barely began to express her surprise.

He smiled. "Yeah."

Chloe blinked in disbelief as she sized up her old friend. It hadn't been even a year since she saw him, but he seemed far more different than she would have expected. His hair was longer, less kempt, and his chin was covered with an Indiana Jones-like three days growth of beard. His face had changed, too – it had lost much of its boyish charm, and taken on a harder edge. To someone who had only known him from his first two years of high school, he would have been unrecognizable.

As she compiled her mental update of Clark, her reporter's instinct kicked in, telling her to ask any of a dozen questions: Where have you been these last months? Why did you drop off the map? Have you spoken with your parents? With Lex?

"How are you?" she asked, suppressing her curiosity for the moment.

Clark's eyes seemed to fade for a moment. "Good," he replied with a tone that seemed to imply that things were really not. "How about you?"

Chloe decided not to press the issue for the moment. "It's been…fun, really," she laughed. "Being a reporter and all. I mean, it's kind of tough balancing working with classes during the school year, but right now it's really great. Except for the walk back to my apartment, considering the neighborhood sometimes seems more like Black Hawk Down." Chloe eyed her friend with suspicion as a smirk crossed his face at her reference. "What's so funny?"

Clark looked down at her, and his eyes sparkled. "Nothing. Tell you what; how about I walk you back to your place and we can catch up over some dinner. Okay?"

Chloe smiled. "It would be a pleasure."

An hour later as Chloe tipped the delivery man, Clark carted the large paper bag filled with Chinese food over to the small table in her apartment, his olfactory sensors exploding at the aroma that wafted from the bag. _My sense of smell has really gotten better in the last year or so_, he wondered to himself as he tore open the bag to retrieve to goods inside. _Well, at least I didn't have to go deaf or something for it to happen._ He placed Chloe's white rice and egg drop soup to one side as his fingers ripped open the top of his spicy beef with vegetables. Behind him, Chloe shut the door and turned, her face transitioning to an amused smirk as she noticed Clark, his fingers (and the hunk of beef between them) halfway to his mouth.

Clark glanced upwards with a look suggesting he had realized the awkwardness of his position. "What?"

Chloe plopped herself down in the ragged chair on the other side of the table. "Nothing – I guess you really did grow up on a farm."

Clark smiled between bites as Chloe continued, allowing her reporter side to begin to assume control. "So - what exactly have you been doing lately?"

Clark paused, as he tried to phrase the answer in his head. "I've been…helping people. Pretty much going from one place to the next and doing whatever needs to be done."

"For example?"

"Kenya."

Chloe's eyes widened. "You convinced Matubi to give up power? How did you do that?"

"Let's just say that when you punch a hole through a concrete wall at Mach 2 and take out five armed guards in half a second, people tend to do what you ask them."

Clark watched as the realization spread quickly across his friend's face. _I didn't think she would have forgotten what I can do. It is kind of one of those things that tends to cement in people's memories._

As if on cue, Chloe continued. "So…have your…abilities changed or anything since Smallville?"

"If anything, they've gotten stronger."

"You know why?"

Clark shrugged. "Don't I wish. I think it's normal – as I get older, I get stronger. But I really don't know."

Chloe shook her head with a smile. "I still can't believe that you, Clark Kent, the most mild-mannered, kind person on Earth, have these incredible powers." She stopped to consider something. "Then again, if the meteor rocks made people into teleporters, shape-shifters and…man, what would you call what Ian Randall could do?"

"I never really thought about it. Self-cloning?"

Chloe chuckled. "He was really an asshole, wasn't he?"

Clark smiled as he took a sip from his glass of water. "Yeah. My dad called him the 'Duplicating Douche.'"

"Hah! That's good. I never saw your dad as the swearing type, though."

"He hides it, but he has quite a vocabulary of profanities. My mom's worse, though."

"That I can't believe. Martha Kent, talking like a South Park character?"

"Hey, she grew up in the city. She has more of a backstory than you want to know."

"I can only imagine. Hey, remember Jordan Cross? Kinda short, awkward kid?" she asked.

"Yeah – I was his guide when he first came to school. How's he doing?"

"Well, apparently he managed to get over that whole awkwardness thing. He got valedictorian this past year, and is going to Harvard this fall."

"Get out. That's awesome! I hoped he was going to be okay."

"I heard a rumor that he can tell the future." Her eyes seemed to sparkle as they always did when the subject turned towards the supernatural.

"Off the record – he used to be able to. Saw him do it a couple times."

"Let me guess – meteor rocks."

"What else?"

Chloe slumped backwards in her chair as she polished off her soup. "Did you ever stop to think how many people in town were affected by those damn things?"

"Not to mention, most of them went psycho. How many kids from our school ended up not graduating because of some meteor phenomenon?" Clark too slumped backwards.

"I actually kept track of it – I was going to do a Torch exposé on it, but the principal shut it down. It ended up being somewhere around 50 kids who ended up getting messed up by them – at least that we knew about."

"All of which, of course, went nuts." Another sip of his water.

Chloe grinned. "Actually, it was only about 45 who went Carrie. There were a few who turned the other way and actually did some good – present company most obvious."

Clark set down his glass as he pursed his lips anxiously. _I think I'm gonna have to tell her the truth. If I'm going to be honest, might as well have full disclosure. _"Yeah…about that…"

Chloe's face registered her confusion. "About what – your powers? You did get them from the meteors, right?"

_Oh boy. This is gonna be rough._

"Not exactly…"

Half an hour later, Chloe Sullivan slumped in her seat, her mind overloaded with facts. She had listened quietly as Clark had talked, revealing things about him that she never would have believed. As he finished, she sat silently, unmoving, unblinking as she struggled to comprehend. Outside, the rumble of a truck downshifting seeped into the apartment.

Clark, hands clasped together as he sat on the edge of his chair, looked over at Chloe. "You okay?"

Chloe blinked out of her reverie. "I'm just…wow. So, let me see if I've got all this right. You are an alien from a planet called Krypton."

"Uh-huh."

"A planet that no longer exists."

"Uh-huh."

"And your spaceship landed the day of the meteor shower."

"Yeah."

"And the meteor rocks can hurt you."

"They're called kryptonite, but yeah."

"And your biological father built the caves under the town."

"No, he just used them – I don't know who built them."

"But he came to Earth forty-five years ago. To Smallville."

"Yeah."

"And he tried to manipulate you into becoming a conqueror of Earth."

"Yup."

"From beyond the grave."

Clark nodded. Chloe pressed on.

"Including giving your dad superpowers to bring you back from Metropolis and sucking you into limbo to brainwash you for three months."

"Uh-huh."

Chloe puffed out her cheeks before blowing them out, something she often did when she was stressed. "Wow. You know, you should really try selling that as a story to some movie studio."

"Believe me, the thought had crossed my mind."

Chloe's gaze shifted off into the distance, as though examining possibilities far beyond what she would have ever imagined before. It was exactly the look Clark had been afraid of. He'd seen it many times before, when she had some story she wanted to break that would change everything. _Oh, man._

Clark stood from his chair and walked over next to Chloe before crouching down next to her and taking her hand. "Chloe – listen. I need you to promise me that you're not going to turn this into a story or anything like that. Please."

Chloe looked towards her friend as her face began to blush. "Of course! Our friendship comes first – it always has." Her thoughts raced backwards thought time for a moment. "Despite any indications I ever gave to the contrary.

"Clark, no matter how big a reporter I become, I would never betray your secret. I know how much you want your privacy – your track record certainly speaks to it. I promise, I would never betray that trust."

Clark smiled sincerely. "I appreciate it."

He rose from his position and head over to the apartment's pitiful excuse for a kitchen to refill his glass from the tap as Chloe's brain began putting together pieces of a puzzle that had nagged the back of her brain for years. "It all makes sense now."

Clark didn't turn from the faucet. "What makes sense?"

"Why you and Lana never managed to become anything – between her meteor necklace and how you came here…" She trailed off as her common sense caught up to her mouth. Her face drained of color as she turned towards Clark. His eyes had glazed over, staring into infinity. The water flowed over the sides of his cup and down over his hand, eliciting no response. "Clark…I almost forgot…my God, I'm so sorry-"

The glass shattered in his grip with a _crack_ that made Chloe jump. He let the shards fall harmlessly into the sink as he slowly turned off the water with his other hand. "It's all right." The words came deliberately, barely loud enough to be heard.

Chloe rose from her seat and slowly walked to her friend, approaching as if he were a tiger whose actions were beyond predictability. She gently laid her hand on his shoulder. He stared downwards at the sink, as though seeing the face of someone long gone but never forgotten.

"I can still hear her, sometimes." Clark's voice dripped from his throat. "In my dreams. I hear her cry for me, the same two words. _Save me_. And I always run as fast as I can to get there." He choked on his own words, stifling the emotion that welled up within him, holding it back as best as he could but knowing even he wasn't strong enough to do it for long. "But I never make it."

Chloe stared at him as a pair of tears fell from his eyes into the sink, mixing with the water and broken glass. All at once, she understood. "That's why you do it, isn't it? Why you've spent the last year running across the world. You're trying to save everyone."

He nodded, a gesture that seemed at once both childlike and mature. Silent tears ran down his cheeks. Chloe pulled him around until he was staring her in the eyes. Her heart cracked straight down the middle at the sight of the strongest, greatest man she ever knew in agony beyond what she had ever known.

"Listen to me, Clark. You can't blame yourself for this. Now, I know you. You are the most responsible man this world - any world – has ever seen. But you don't have to take responsibility for this. It is not your fault. And as someone who knows about people you love leaving you forever, let me tell you: you need to come to grips with this. Even you can't run from this forever."

"I failed her. Just like I told her I'd never do," he sniffled. "I…can't forgive myself, Chloe."

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, deeply, as she felt his sadness spilling into her and threatening her own makeup. "Then let her forgive you."


	5. Pain

Chapter 5

It felt like he was walking into the gates of Hell.

At the town border, Clark found himself coming to a halt, his body acting of its own accord as the sign appeared a hundred feet below him. Even in the dark of night, it was plainly visible: Welcome to Smallville, Meteor Capital of the World. He shuddered at the sight, his stomach churning at the thought of his fiery, Biblical entrance to this world a little over seventeen years prior. In his arrival, he had brought destruction; sometimes Clark wondered whether it was his curse to spend the rest of his life trying to make up for it.

But he wasn't here to reminisce. With a whoosh of air, he pushed himself forwards through the sky again, his eyes staring ahead to ensure he stayed on course.

Within a minute, he saw what he was looking for. Clark dropped out of the sky, alighting next to the deserted entrance with a scrape of gravel. It didn't feel right to fly over it. The arch above the entryway seemed incredibly foreboding. Smallville Cemetery. All around him, the sounds of the night seemed incredibly loud. The leathery thump of bat wings. The hoot of owls. The gentle crunching as rabbits and raccoons scurried through the underbrush. And the chirp of crickets above it all, providing a beat to the Gothic symphony of the night.

He stepped through the arch slowly, eyes glancing left and right, scanning the night. He hadn't been this afraid for himself since before puberty.

_Get a hold of yourself, Clark!_ he shouted in his head. _There is nothing to be afraid of here._

_If that's so, then why am I shivering?_

He looked down at his arms, crossed over his chest and trembling a little. He couldn't feel temperature, not in the ranges it came on Earth. From the plains of Antarctica to the deserts of the Sahara, it all felt the same to him.

But on a seventy-degree night in Kansas, he trembled like a frightened rabbit.

Clark realized what he must have looked like, standing in a cemetery alone and shivering. Angry with himself, he set his jaw and dropped his arms to his side like a gunfighter. The eerie tingle on the back of his neck faded to nothing as he willed it away. _I'm here for a reason. I shouldn't forget it._

Determined, he walked forwards towards his goal, parting between the tombstones until he found himself standing before a triumvirate of granite obelisks. His eyes panned from the left to the right, reading the names aloud in his mind.

Lewis Lang. 1952-1989.

Laura Lang. 1959-1989.

His mind caught as he read over the last one. He couldn't bring himself to think it, until finally it burst from his lips with a hint of rage.

"Lana Lang. Born 1986, Died 2006."

Just then, he saw the words engraved beneath. A single phrase. Clark's soul seemed to ignite as he read over the lines.

'_Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all._

His fist tightened into a ball as he howled in anger, crying to the stars which had born him all those years before.

"_God damn it, Lana! What do you want from me?!?"_ he screamed. "I gave you everything and more, but it still isn't enough, is it? Everything I ever did was for you, and you still hold me to my mistakes even after you're gone!"

He paused to wipe spittle off the side of his mouth. Suddenly, all those emotions he had been trying to stow away in some part of his soul came flooding back. He sank to his knees, weeping, at the foot of her stone. "All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, Lana. If it had been what you wanted, I would have flown off into the stars and never looked back."

"I don't know for sure why I was sent here. But if I had known what harm I would have brought to you…I never would have let it happen. I would have rather died with Krypton than see you die because of me."

Clark sat there in the graveyard for a long minute, silently weeping to himself.

"But that's not an option, now is it? Now we've switched. You're up there in the heavens, and I'm down here on Earth. And we're both stuck in our respective places for the foreseeable future."

His head bowed against his chest as he realized what he had to do. Slowly, he clasped his hands together, raised them to his forehead and began to pray. To the one person who he knew he could trust in this matter.

"Lara...are you up there?"

"I think you can hear me. I hope so. Anyway, I don't know if you and Lana are in the same place right now – if people from Krypton even go to the same heaven as people from Earth. But I need a favor from you."

"I need you to promise…that you'll watch over Lana for me. That you'll keep her safe and hold her close when she needs it. Love her…because I can't do it anymore."

Hours later, the grumble of an engine broke through the dreamless sleep Clark found himself awakening from as he rose to his knees from the ground. He blinked furiously as he realized where he was, the shadow of the gravestone in the moonlight blanketing him. _Must have nodded off._ The engine noise cut out as the headlights from the other side of the cemetery's wall went dark. Clark glanced at his watch; the glowing hands informed him that it was eighteen minutes after midnight. _Who on earth would be coming to a cemetery this late?_

The sound of footsteps against the earth was his only answer. Something about the sound of it sparked a distant memory in Clark's mind. From his concealed position on the ground, he listened closer. The leather soles hit the ground in a confident rhythm, an unbreaking stride that seemed far too presumptuous for such hallowed ground. Beneath that the sound of breath, slowly being sucked in then released just as slowly. Finally, quietest of all was a steady heartbeat – study, but not normal.

_Tha-thump thump._

_Tha-thump thump._

_Tha-thump thump._

The color rushed to Clark's face as he realized who was quickly approaching him. He leapt to his feet in a smooth motion faster than the eye, a move that caused the rapidly approaching man to leap backwards in his tracks with a deep intake of breath. Clark's eyes stared daggers at the man a few yards in front of him.

"Lex."

His voice had dropped to the icy scrape that he normally reserved for murderers and rapists. Clark took a slight amount of satisfaction in the sound of Lex's heart beat at triple-time as the bald man quickly took on an air of indifference.

"No 'hello,' Clark? No kind greeting? That's certainly no way to greet an old friend – especially in the middle of the night in a graveyard."

Clark glowered at Lex in the moonlight. "What are you doing here?" It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

Lex gestured towards the tombstone behind Clark. "The same thing you are, from the looks of it – saying hello to a friend." He took on a look of mock surprise as he raised his hand to his mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry – were you two…sleeping? Together?" his mouth split wide in an evil grin. "That's so adorable…considering you never had the chance before."

Clark felt as though his forehead was about to explode as the veins popped out of his neck in rage. He leapt towards Lex, yelling "You sick mother…"

…only to be cut off as green fire burst through his veins.

Clark collapsed to his knees at Lex's feet, his intestines churning as though all those diseases his body had fought off without notice over the years had regrouped for a final attack on his GI tract. Lex looked down with a smirk at the man who had once been his best friend.

"Profanity doesn't suit you, Clark," he mocked. Clark could only stare, his eyes trying to focus on the ring on Lex's right hand. The ring that glowed a bright green in the darkness of the night. Curses far more vicious than the one Clark had tried to blurt before rose up with the bile from his stomach, but he could barely summon the energy to open his mouth.

_Even after all these years…still hurts so much._

Lex bent down to look his old pal in the eyes. "You know, I could kill you right now, Clark. With this little thing-" -he caressed the green stone on his fist with his other hand- "-it wouldn't be very hard. Just a quick squeeze. No trouble at all, really. But somehow, I don't think Lana would be very happy about that.

"So consider this a warning. If we ever meet again outside of these walls, I won't hesitate to kill you faster than even you can imagine. I won't even have to think about it. But not here."

As he stood, Clark found his voice returned to him. When he heard it, it sounded shaky and small – pitifully so, even. "Lana…never knew you…" he stuttered.

"Neither did you, Clark," Lex said, staring down at Clark again. "Nobody did – not even my father. All you ever saw was what you wanted to see. It seems to be a fairly common problem in this town. Not that it matters anymore. I've moved on to bigger and better things now. Unlike you, I'm not stuck in the past – and I'm not afraid to be what I really am."

With that Lex turned to leave, his trenchcoat swirling like a cape in the darkness, but caught himself and turned back to Clark. Luthor bent down again, causing Clark's pain to increase yet again as the kryptonite came even closer to his tortured flesh.

"Oh, and just so you know." Lex was whispering, his mouth barely an inch from Clark's ear. "You have no idea what you missed with Lana. She was incredible."

And with that, he stood, whirled and walked calmly to his car, leaving Clark lying on the ground ten feet from the grave of the only girl he had ever loved with an image that would haunt him forever.


	6. Home

Chapter 6

A light rain had begun to fall from the heavens as the town clock chimed midnight, the loud claps of the bell echoing across the town despite the water in the air. The lights of Smallville shined in the night air, as a handful of people wandered the streets. _Even in a small town, there are always some people who like to stay out late. Then again, being a night own is the least of differences people here tend to have._ From his vantage point, Clark couldn't see the lights of town, but he could hear the bell, its sound resounding as if trying to reach all of Kansas. He could hear the rain splatter around him, each drop falling against the metal roof of his parents' barn with a metallic _tink_. And he could hear the sound of his parents' breathing, slow and steady in the night as they slept a hundred feet away in their room.

Clark gazed into their room, his eyes peeling back the wooden wall of his house so he could check in on them. Jonathan and Martha Kent were sleeping soundly next to each other, his father's arm thrown over his mother. Clark smiled even as he quietly thanked them for being asleep instead of feeling…amorous.

_Even before I got my super-hearing, there were nights…those walls are really not very thick. _His thoughts drifted back to the summer between freshman and sophomore years of school, on one warm night when all the pillows, clothes and sheets he could put over his ears weren't quite enough to keep out the sound of his parents' activities in the next room. Annoyed, Clark had finally just leapt out of bed and started running for the hills in just his underwear, the ground presenting no challenge to his bare feet. Clark smiled. _The only thing I was concerned about was that I would run into a bunch of guys camping in the woods with me in my boxers. And the only thing I was really hoping for was that I would run into a bunch of girls camping in the woods with me in my boxers._ He snorted. _They probably just would have laughed at me, anyway._

The rain started to grow stronger now, pounding down with greater and greater force. It didn't really matter to Clark; he wouldn't catch a cold no matter how long he stood in the rain. But he really didn't feel like getting wet. So, like he had done so many times as a boy, he leapt off the back edge of the roof, grabbing the edge of the siding with one hand and swinging himself through the open door in the second story.

Bringing him right into the middle of his Fortress of Solitude.

He glanced around in the darkness before reaching for the lightswitch connected to his desk, which with a click lit the room on a bright yellow. More than a room really, Clark's personal hideaway stretched halfway across the barn, taking up nearly the entirety of the upper level. It had originally been reserved for hay bales, but Hiram Kent had decided in a moment of fatherly care to give it to his son as a refuge from the world at large when Jonathan was thirteen – and Jonathan had returned the favor to his son.

_Ma's cleaned up here,_ Clark observed as his eyes swept the room, surveying the piles of books that had been organized and shelved since Clark's rapid departure from Smallville nearly a year prior. The desk was immaculate, the shelves dusted, and the floor swept. Clark looked over at the old couch along the side of the room; the blanket atop hit had been changed and folded neatly, and the pillows looked freshly poofed. Clark felt a pang of drowsiness hit him, and he yawned. _It has been a long day. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to lie down for a minute. I just have to be gone before Mom and Dad wake up. _ He plopped himself down onto the couch and reclined against the pillows, sighing as he felt the comfort of familiarity after so long from home. The sound of the raindrops was almost hypnotic, and Clark very quickly found himself asleep.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sky over Smallville seemed to glow a robin's egg blue as Clark bolted out of bed, his mother calling his name. Quickly, he dressed and ran downstairs to breakfast, hugging the graying-haired woman he had called his mother since the day eighteen years before when a rocketship had fallen from the sky into the Kents' back field and their lives had changed forever. He didn't know where he came from; his father held some crackpot theory that he was from another planet, but Clark – despite a love for science fiction – and his mother always laughed it off. Still, it nagged at him sometimes; his parents had hid the fact that he was adopted for seventeen years, and though he had forgiven them many times over, he still wondered as to who his true parents were.

As the clock hit seven-thirty, Clark waved goodbye to his mother and ran out the door, taking the time to give his father a hug as he ran. His father always seemed to fit right against him in his arms, the man's balding head coming barely above the six-and-a-quarter foot Clark's chin. Clark leapt into his parents' aging Ford truck and took off for school. The truck rattled down the road as Clark drove, his eyes surveying the open plains all around him – barely a tree to be seen in any direction, just fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. The nearest house to his own was a mile away, and other than that nobody for five miles in either direction. Just the way he liked it.

He pulled into the parking lot of Smallville High a few minutes before eight, only to meet up with a blond-haired, freckled boy who he recognized as his friend Pete Ross. Giving a jovial wave to Pete, he climbed up the steps and entered the tiny school, turning left at the second door and entering a small classroom. As he plopped down in his usual desk, he heard a sweet voice behind him and turned to see his oldest friend, Lana Lang. Her strawberry-blond hair was held back in a ponytail, and her light blue sweater matched her faded jeans closely. Her lightly freckled cheeks crinkled as she smiled, her deep green eyes twinkling as she looked at him. Clark smiled back at her; she had been his next-door-neighbor and best friend since preschool, when both their parents introduced them to each other for the first time.

She leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you think we can go flying tonight?" she asked softly, making sure that no one would hear. There was a glint of glee in her eyes. Clark nodded softly and smiled, and Lana beamed. As the teacher came in and called the class to order, Clark leaned back in his chair, as a feeling of contentedness spread across him. Everything was going to be fine, he said to himself. But a nagging doubt began to spread across the back of his mind.

_Wait a minute. Ma doesn't have gray hair. And Pa's as tall as me._

The doubt began spreading faster, like a black cloud in the sky.

_And they told me I was from Krypton when I was fourteen. I know I'm from Krypton!_

The doubt exploded, shooting across every corner of his mind as he glanced around the classroom furiously. The teacher continued to speak monotonously in the background as Clark filled with panic.

_And…and Pete is black! And he left for Wichita last year! And that's not Lana! _He spun to look at the cute girl next to him. She looked familiar…but more like his mother than anyone else; a younger, prettier version of Martha Kent.

_Lana doesn't have that color hair, and she never wears blue, and she doesn't look or sound or smell like that, and…I never told her I could fly!_

Lana looked over at him now, perplexed at his expression. "Clark?" she asked in concern.

_Wait a minute…I can't fly, can I? Yes, yes I can…but I couldn't…I couldn't…_

"Clark? Clark, is that you?"

_Oh my God. What is this?!?_

With a scream, Clark bolted out of sleep, slamming his head against the side of the couch that broke with a bang. His eyes snapped open – to see his parents standing above him, looking down in concern. His heart thudded in his ears. Sunlight streamed in through the opening in the Fortress as Martha Kent reached down and grabbed her son's hand.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she said, a smile of relief falling over her lips.


	7. Memories

The apple cider tasted delicious.

Clark sipped the amber liquid slowly, savoring its taste. He hadn't had it since he had left Smallville, and he'd forgotten just how good it was. Especially in the morning. As he drank, he remembered hundreds of such morning where he'd sat at the kitchen table as he ate breakfast and read the comics before school, all the while drinking the fresh apple cider that his mother bought from the Peterson's farm on the other side of town. Today could have been any one of those days: Clark sat at the table drinking his cider and eating the pancakes his mother had made for him as the sun rose outside and the cows mooed.

But it wasn't any day. It was his first day home in almost a year. The first time in over eleven months when he'd seen his room, his family's animals, his barn. His parents.

Both of whom were seated across the table from him right now.

Clark stared at them over the lip of his cider glass as he took another swig. His father's hair was staring to gray around the temples, and there were a few more wrinkles in his mother's face. _I never realized how old they're getting,_ Clark thought. _I hope they're doing okay._

_Then again, that's probably the last thing on their minds right now._

"I'm sorry." It was the first thing that came out of Clark's mouth, spilling out before he could realize it. It was an old habit of his, one that came from growing up with being strong enough to accidentally cause any number of problems. Over time, it at all but become his default response whenever he felt ashamed - even when he had no reason to be.

But he honestly wasn't sure whether or not he should feel ashamed right then.

His words hung in the air like smoke for a long moment as Jonathan and Martha stared at him. They knew their son; they knew that he could sense their feelings almost as well as either of them could, and they knew that he would say whatever he needed to in order to make things right. Clark glumly stared at his plate, his fork sculpting the remnants of his pancakes into a lump.

"I'm sorry for running off so quickly. For abandoning you. For not listening to you before." He chuckled awkwardly to himself. "You know, you guys were right when you said running away from your problems never solves anything. No matter how far I got from Smallville…it was still with me."

"I'm so sorry." A tear began to build up in his eye, but he fought it back.

His mother reached across the table and grasped his hands in hers, smiling sweetly. Clark felt a rush of blood fly to his face as her soft hands wrapped around his. He forced his head up from its bowed position to see both his parents on the edge of tears. Martha grinned quietly, her boundless love for her son shining through.

"You don't need to be, Clark," she choked out through her sniffling. "We were never mad at you from the start."

Jonathan laid his hand atop both of theirs. "We know that what you're going through is something you have to do on your own. We both did it, too. Everyone needs to find themselves, and this is the time when most people do it. Your mother and I went through the same thing."

For a second, Clark smiled as he pictured his parents smashing through brick walls and dodging bullets to topple dictators half a world away. But the smile quickly faded as a realization dawned on Clark, something he hadn't ever realized about the people who had raised him since before he could remember.

_If they could have done it then…they probably would have._

Superhuman strength or not, Clark couldn't hold back the tears from trickling down his face any longer. He sniffled and dabbed at his eyes, but his heart wasn't really in it. For the first time since he had been fourteen, he wanted to cry. He wanted to sob away his pains and troubles as his mother held him close and sang softly to him, while his father ran his hand through his hair as he'd done to Clark a thousand times before. He wanted to let emotion overtake him and flood through his system like a drug, leaving him curled on the floor in the throes of his own tears. Clark Kent could walk through an explosion that leveled ten city blocks; he could tear tanks apart with his bear hands, through house-sized boulders around like beach balls and swat airplanes out of the sky.

But just like everyone else, even he was no match for his own emotions.

The tears gushed forth with a tiny sob as Clark felt himself slump forwards against the table, forehead landing on his hands as he fell. He watched as his tears splashed down on the polished wood, each smacking the table with a tiny, almost imperceptible _plop_. His chest jerked quietly as he sucked in air in quick, staccato bursts through the sobs, only to ooze it back out in a plaintive moan. In a moment, his mother was beside him, her arms wrapped around him as she spoke softly into his ear, just as she had so many times years before. His father rubbed Clark's back gently, trying to do his best to ease his son's pain. As his mother hushed softly into his ear, Clark could only see in his minds' eye that horrible day, almost a year before.

His parents had been out in town at the time, so nobody else had been home to pick up the phone when it had been ringing. Clark cursed silently to himself as he paused the CD player he had brought onto the porch and ran inside – he had been engrossed in a particularly interesting part of a Clive Cussler novel, and had every intention of finishing the novel by the time his parents came home.

"Hello?" he had said as he scooped up the phone.

"Clark? Oh thank God," came the reply. The speaker sounded panicked, frightened – something Clark noticed immediately.

"Lana? What's wrong?" His voice was filled with concern.

"There's these guys, they're after me – I jammed the door behind me, but they're trying to break it down – I don't know how long I have – please, Clark, help me –"

Clark felt a cold wave ripple across his heart, though he didn't know why. "Tell me where you are, Lana."

"I'm in Metropolis, on the roof of my building – 29th and Byrne—"

A crash came over the line, and Lana shrieked. "They're through – hurry Cl-AAAAAA!" The sounds of a scuffle filled the line.

"Lana? LANA!" Clark screamed into the phone. With a rush of air, he threw the phone to the ground and tore through the screen door. By the time it landed, Clark was already in Missouri.

He broke every speed record he had ever set that day, ripping across the countryside like nothing the world had ever seen. He could feel the heat from the friction, pressing against his chest, but he didn't care right then. He could barely see the countryside around him, he was going so fast, but he still didn't care. His slipstream ripped fenceposts out of the ground a hundred yards from his path and uprooted corn, wheat and trees in a straight line. Normally, he would have felt horrible for doing it. But not now.

It is, as the crow flies, two hundred and eleven miles from Smallville, Kansas to Metropolis, Missouri. Clark Kent, on that day, covered it in nineteen point three-five seconds.

But it was not fast enough. Not that day.

Clark slammed on the brakes about a half mile from Lana's apartment in Metropolis, his wake shattering windows behind him. Two long strips of Vibram rubber from his boots smelted to the pavement as he pulled himself to a stop in front of 722 29th Street. Folks all around dropped to the ground at the roar of wind that erupted from nowhere; those who happened to be looking the right direction saw it accompanied by the sudden appearance of a young man in jeans and a flannel shirt, both of which were worn, burnt and still smoking. But most people didn't even notice him, even if they were looking the right way. Their eyes, like Clark's, were locked on what many of them would describe as the most tragic thing they had ever seen in their lives.

On the ground, at Clark's feet, lay the broken body of Lana Lang.

Her heart pumped, gently, once more, then fell silent.

Clark fell to his knees, tears cascading down his face. "No, no, no…not you too…come on, Lana, please…" He reached out to gently stroke her hair, putting it back into place. "I can't lose you…I need you too much…I love you too much."

"Just wake up, and I'll take you home, okay? I'll bring you back to Smallville, and everyone will come by and see you and hug you. And then we can still go to the movies, and make each other laugh, and kiss up in the loft when it's cold outside…we can even get married…please, just wake up. I'll give you the world if you'll just wake up."

"It's all right, Clark," Martha Kent whispered into Clark's ear he laid against the kitchen table, his shuddering making the sturdy oak tremble. "Just let it out."

Clark couldn't look up at them – he was too ashamed of what he had become, what he was doing. If he looked at them and their caring, understanding faces, it would only confirm just how wrong it was for him to be doing it. If he talked to them, it would be just as bad. So the words came out directed towards the table.

"I have all these powers…and I couldn't save her."


	8. Summertime

As the old red farm truck ambled back from town, Clark smiled behind the wheel. It had been a good day. The sun was beginning to sink in the summer sky, and the birds sang their sweet songs as they always had. Cows mooed by the roadside as he drove by, and he playfully lowed back to them, smiling as he did so. The local radio station's broadcast came tinnily through the truck's speakers. Clark held the theory that one could always tell just how far one was from "civilization" by the ages of the songs played on the pop station – the wider the range of years, the further into the boondocks you were.

_And it continues to hold,_ he thought with a smile as the sounds of The Killers segued into classic Bruce Springsteen. Clark tapped his hand against the side of the truck as his arm hung out the window, singing silently along to himself as he went.

_Wendy, let me in_

_I wanna be your friend_

_I wanna guard your dreams and visions_

_Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims_

_And strap your hands 'cross my engine!_

He always blushed a little inside at that line, but Clark kept singing.

_I wanna know if love is wild, babe,_

_I wanna know if love is real!_

Clark slowed the truck down to turn onto his road, forcing him to stop singing for just a second – but he made up for it by belting out his favorite lines of the song:

_The highway's jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive_

_Everybody's out on the run tonight but there's no place left to hide_

_Together Wendy we'll live with the sadness_

_I'll love you with all the madness in my soul_

As Clark pulled up towards the house, his mother looked up from the tractor she had been working on. She smiled as her son stopped the truck but left it on to hear the last of a song, the love for which had been, for some reason unknown even to her, one of the things she was happiest she had passed on to her child. Oblivious to her, he cried out the last line of the tune.

_But till then, tramps like us, baby we were born to run!_

"Having fun?" Martha asked, causing Clark to whirl in surprise. Embarrassed, he shut off the truck's ignition as his blood ran to his cheeks.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, trying to move the conversation into friendlier territory.

"Your father's roasting steaks on the grill," Martha replied as she watched her son effortlessly heft half a dozen fifty-pound bags out of the Dodge's bed. "You want a hand with those?"

Clark smiled, a smile he rarely got to use anymore. It was his Thanks-for-asking-but-I-have-superpowers-remember? smile. "I can handle it." As he walked the bags off to the barn, Martha could only watch her son as pride flowed through her like a drug. Clark had turned out a thousand times better than she ever would have hoped to dream that October day when his spaceship had fallen out of the sky. Despite every obstacle the world had thrown in his way, he had managed to leap over them and still keep a smile on his face in the end. Even his problems with Lana's death had managed to resolve themselves in the three weeks since he came back. Martha knew her son well; she knew that the feelings, the emotions were still there, but every day since he had returned had managed to heal him a little more. She also knew that the memory of her son lying on the table, unimaginable emotions he had kept bottled up inside him spilling out, would be one she would remember for the rest of her life. In one sense, it was frightening, as Martha had realized at that moment that this might be all her son needed her for anymore.

On the other hand, it meant that he still needed her.

"I never should have doubted you," came her husband's voice from behind her. She didn't even turn around, but smiled anyway.

"We did a good job, raising him right," Martha said.

The two watched their son for a long moment as their dog Shelby ran up to him, ball in his mouth as if trying to get his attention. He grabbed the ball from the retriever and threw it down the drive, causing the dog to leap after it in hot pursuit. For a minute, everything was just as it should be – just like things had once been.

But, deep down inside, Martha knew they couldn't stay that way forever.

Her husband looked at her. "I'm gonna go start dinner."

* * *

Clark dropped his fork onto the empty plate with a _clink_ of finality. His mother glanced over at his plate as she always had, and saw – as she always did – that he hadn't finished up his string beans. Martha silently shook her head as she turned back to the last of her steak. Behind his glass of milk, Clark smiled. _Some things never change._ At least she gave him the courtesy of not chiding him on it anymore. After all, he was twenty years old – in his mind, more than old enough to decide not to eat his vegetables if he didn't want to. So, when his father looked across the table at the beans inquisitively, Clark silently handed his plate over. Clark could all but hear his mother's thoughts: _At least one of them is eating them._

As his parents finished up, Clark's eyes wandered off towards the horizon past the barn. From the porch (Clark's personal favorite eating spot when it was summertime) one could see Route 12 a half-mile away off to the left easily, the trucks barreling down it. Off to the other side sat the forest, a thick group of trees that served as the eastern border of the Kent farm. Clark had spent may a day frolicking in them when he was younger, playing games with Pete; cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, nearly every game imaginable. _But my favorite was always space explorers._

This, of course, provoked a smile.

"So, Clark," came his father's voice from the other end of the table. Clark turned to see his dad had polished off the green beans. "Have you given any thought to what you're going to do now?"

_They've been waiting to ask this question for a while,_ he thought as he noted the expressions on his parents' faces.

"Well, I figured I'd take the dishes inside, help Mom wash them up, bring the cows inside for the night and watch a little TV. I don't want to miss Stowe again." While normally Clark loathed the WB network's programming, the well-written show about a group of high schoolers had struck a chord with him from the first time he saw it. "I gotta say, I don't like these new characters they introduced last season. I wish they still had on the original four – those guys were good."

"Well, they went on to college, and the writers clearly didn't want the show to go that direction," Martha said. The show was sort of a family affair in the Kent house. "Have you thought about going back to school?"

_Touché, Mom._ Clark had deferred a year after his freshman year at Metropolis University due to the events that had sent him across the world. "Yeah, I have. That's pretty much what I've been planning on doing at the end of the summer."

"Are you sure you'll be ready?" Her son's well-being always came first to Martha.

He nodded, and his voice took on a more somber tone. "I think so. Besides, it's time for me to move on, get back on track with my life. It's what Lana would have wanted me to do."

Clark felt his mother's reassuring touch on his hand. He glanced up to see her looking at him with pride flowing from her eyes. "We knew you'd end up doing the right thing, Clark. And that is what she would have wanted – you to be happy."

Clark smiled at them as he reminded himself yet again what wonderful parents he had. "It's funny, you know. Before any of this happened, I was happy just living my normal life – hanging out with my friends, being here with you on the farm, and occasionally leaping in the way of a speeding bullet or two. But when I was out going across the world…I was happy there, too. Being able to use my powers without worry of being recognized, and really being able to help people. Not just knocking out kryptonite freaks and keeping drunken kids behind the wheel from killing somebody. I didn't realize it at the time, but…it felt good to be that person. It felt like I was finally doing something with these gifts, instead of just bailing hay. But I don't want to lose what I already have."

Jonathan and Martha Kent had nothing to say in response. For a long minute, Clark's words hung in the air as they all thought about what he had said. Finally, Jonathan broke the reverie.

"Well…maybe there's a way you could be both."


	9. Creation

His parents had gotten into it much more quickly than Clark had. After his dad had explained the idea to his family over the dinner table, Martha had jumped on board immediately. Clark wasn't so sure; he didn't know if his father's idea was necessarily the smartest thing to do. After all, hadn't they been the ones to always caution him to keep his abilities a secret, keep people from learning about them? They'd been furious when he'd admitted that he'd told Pete Ross his secret, and had nearly disowned him when the learned that Alicia Jacobs had ever found out about his...talents. But, as Clark learned, his parents had learned a few lessons since them. Or, as his dad said to him as they brought the dishes inside, "You have as much right as anyone to use your talents for the good of the world."

As Martha Kent did the dishes, Jonathan and Clark continued their discussion as they brought the cows in for the night. Clark had argued that going around the world in public using his powers in front of people would probably set him up for all kinds of unimaginable trouble. He'd said, "Just think about all the psychos here in Smallville that seemed to get attracted to me when I did anything superhuman. Imagine what the rest of the world has in store." His father, on the other hand, had argued that Smallville was hardly representative of the rest of the world; in fact, it was really a place without comparison – "in both good ways and bad." In addition, he said that Clark did truly have exceptional gifts, and that while using them covertly could help plenty of people, he could help far more if he wasn't so preoccupied with making sure no one saw him when he was using them. By the time the two were walking back to the house after putting the herd to bed, Clark was sold on the idea. Pa Kent had always been good at convincing his son.

"Now," Clark had said, "how do we make it work?"

That was at 8:30. It was now a quarter to 11, and the family's cavalcade of ideas was finally beginning to come together into a workable concept. The idea of a disguise had been agreed upon by all from the start, but it turned out that there were two separate camps on that topic: Martha and Clark wanted Clark's alter-ego to be the one wearing the disguise, while Jonathan reasoned that it had to be Clark himself who wore the disguise in everyday life.

"People won't be as trusting of you if you run around wearing a mask, and we have to have people's trust for this to work. If people are afraid that there's a risk of you having some sort of agenda besides helping others, the world will be looking for the slightest reason to bring you down," he said.

Martha, on the other hand, didn't want her son to have to hide who he truly was. "What about all the people Clark knew back in high school, or in college, or just here in town, who saw his face – who knew him? Don't you think they'll see through this in two seconds?"

There's a chance, her husband said, but the risks are far greater if the world ends up fearing Clark.

At this point Clark quietly pointed out that he _had_ been away for a whole year from just about anyone, that he _hadn't_ (much to his regret) been able to spend very much time with other people his age in Metropolis between classes, helping out on the farm on weekends and the occasional odd job in the city, that his face _had_ changed since during high school, and that most of the people already close to him already _knew_ his secret anyway. "Besides, I don't think I want to go around wearing a mask anyway. It just…wouldn't feel right."

With that issue settled, talk quickly turned to how to distinguish Clark and his alter-ego. His "super-side," as his mom started to call it, came first.

"Clearly," Martha had declared, "you're going to need some kind of uniform."

Clark had immediately lobbied for something dark and mysterious looking, with lots of "sharp angles, badass shadowing – lots of silver and black." This prompted both his parents' objections – dressing up like some sort of Matrix refugee, Pa said, would probably not do much to make him trustworthy. It needed to be something bright and simple – easy to remember. Besides, Ma had said, no son of hers would be caught running around "like a ghoul."

However, Clark had one more suggestion to make: "I think I should get a cape." His father immediately protested, saying how hard it would be to hide when not playing hero, how it would probably get caught on things left and right, how it wouldn't be close to his skin so it would get damaged easily, and on and on – Clark's protestations about how cool it would be not withstanding. Martha, though, stood with her son on this, saying that a cape would certainly make him look heroic and stand out – "and wasn't that the whole point of this thing?"

"And I just heard about this new fabric that was developed. It's as durable and soft as cotton but as fire-resistant as Nomex and about as tough as Kevlar," Clark added.

Jonathan crossed his arms in resistance to the idea. "And probably costs five thousand dollars a yard."

"It's actually not for sale just yet. But seeing as how LuthorCorp is the one who's developing it…" Clark's eyes narrowed as his lips split into a malevolent grin. "…I wouldn't have any ethical problems about liberating a few sheets of it from their lab."

By now it was 9:20, and the topic turned to designing the uniform. For this, Clark asked for – and received – just about complete creative control. He shooed his parents off into the other room to watch TV while he set about sketching out his ideas. A tight blue bodysuit for the base of the outfit, stretching from head to toe – the underarmor shirt and pants from his football days were perfect for the task. The cape – long and red – stretched from his shoulders down to his ankles. A pair of tight-fitting, thin-soled leather boots, colored to match the cape and able to fit under his street shoes. A thin belt of red around the waist, broadening into two sleek forms that pointed towards his groin up front. (_A little Jimi Hendrix, _he had thought, _but it looks good._) Finally, strangest of all, a giant pentagram sat across his chest, stretching from about two inches above his collarbone almost down to his belly button. The shape was yellow, with a thin border of red around it. It was this that most confused his parents when they came back into the room.

"It's for the emblem," Clark explained. "I figure I need some kind of symbol on the chest, something for people to easily identify me. Unfortunately," he gestured to the pages of doodles showing dozens of different pentagram-filling squiggles and shapes, "I can't think of anything that seems to work."

"We'll come back to it," they'd said.

By 10:30, talk had turned to what Clark was going to call himself while he was "in costume," as his theater-performing mother had said.

"Why don't you just call yourself Kal-El? It certainly wouldn't be hard to remember," she said.

"Because it sounds alien, and the last thing Clark wants to do is sound alien. It'll make him less trustworthy in most people's eyes."

"And plenty of people in Metropolis heard me call myself Kal back when I ran away," Clark added. "Any one of them could make me and blow the whole thing apart."

"Well, you need a character name, Clark," Martha said. "You need something that sounds trusting, and wholesome. Something simple."

His father added his two cents. "It needs to make clear your humanity…but emphasizes your gifts, too."

The three stared off into different directions, their minds working furiously. As the clock struck 11:45, a word snapped into Clark's head as if out of thin air. His mind raced over it – it fit every criteria. It even had a historical reference, though a tenuous one. _And_, he thought as his eyes glanced over his idea for the outfit, _it just seems to work_.

"How about Superman?"


	10. Destiny

Jonathan and Martha looked at each other, going over the word in their heads. They had known each other for almost thirty years by that point, and by now could almost tell what the other one was thinking before they knew it. And this time, they were both thinking the exact same thing.

"Superman sounds good," Pa Kent said, simultaneously nodding his approval. A thought dawned on him, and he reached down for the paper where his son Clark had sketched pages of pentagram-shaped designs for the chest of the costume. As his son and wife watched, he very quickly drew a simple shape on the paper before presenting it to them.

"And, it gives me an idea for that emblem."

Clark and Martha leaned in simultaneously. On the paper, Jonathan had drawn out a five-sided shape, with a large letter "S" inside it. The letter was large enough that it touched all five borders of the shield at one point or another.

Clark nodded his approval. "I like it."

"It could use a little jazzing up," his mother added, "but I think the idea's a good one. And it gives us a good place to leave off for tomorrow."

"I agree," Jonathan groaned. "I'm getting too old to stay up this late."

Clark smiled. "You never could stay up this late, Pa."

"Farmers aren't exactly known for their part-animal habits. Besides, I seem to recall a certain _someone_ who couldn't make it past ten without getting cranky until he was fifteen years old."

Clark looked hurt. Sensing the potential for trouble, his mother stepped in to end the argument. "I say we all go to bed and get a fresh start on all this in the morning, okay? We'll all be a lot fresher then."

The two men - _Clark really was a man now_, she marveled – nodded their agreement, and turned for the staircase to head to bed.

* * *

The next morning, Jonathan Kent came downstairs at 5:15 as was his fashion to get a pot of coffee ready, only to find to his amazement his son seated at the kitchen table, sipping at a mug and reading the morning paper.

"Mornin', Pa," Clark said, and raised his mug in greeting to his father. "I started the coffee up for you." He gestured to the kitchen counter, where the coffee maker was slowly dripping its bitter brown treasure into the glass container. Jonathan approached the machine cautiously, as if its already having been turned on by the time he came downstairs would have disturbed the fabric of the universe to such a degree that his mere presence near it would threaten the entire farm.

"So what are you doing up so early, son?" he asked as he poured himself a cup of bean juice.

Clark shrugged as he took another swallow out of his mug. "I guess I was just too excited about this whole…secret identity thing to get much sleep. I was up by 4."

Jonathan sighed to himself in amazement as he pulled up a chair to the table and grabbed the sports section of the paper. Though like most farm boys, Clark had needed to be an early riser in order to accomplish his chores before school, his powers had always allowed him to accomplish his chores inside of ten minutes in the morning – allowing Clark to sleep in until nearly six-thirty on most school days. Of course, also like most farm boys, just because he had had to get up early to do chores didn't mean he had to _like_ it. So to Jonathan, the idea that his son would willingly get up before himself was rather unusual. But he'd long since gotten used to his son's occasional changes.

"Excuse me," Clark said as he stood from his chair and departed with the comics for the bathroom. As the door closed, Jonathan leaned over the table to stare into his son's mug, only to chuckle as he looked within at the half-drained hot cocoa, frothy foam of melted whipped cream clinging to the sides in a couple of places.

_Then again, there are some things about Clark that will never change._

Clark's finishing in the bathroom came almost simultaneously to his mother's arrival in the kitchen; she had barely had time to ask her husband where Clark was before the toilet flushed. After the usual morning greeting, Martha's offer of bacon and scrambled eggs for Clark (and, to Jonathan's discontent, oatmeal with brown sugar for him) was quickly accepted, and the family dug into their respective breakfasts at the first possible opportunity. As they ate, Clark outlined what he'd done with his additional waking hours.

"After I got up, I shot over to Metropolis to pick up that fabric from LuthorCorp. I grabbed five sheets of it, each one almost six feet long. They should work perfect for the cape," he said between bites. "I was hoping we could get right to work on it – after the chores, I mean," he hastily added.

His parents, of course, had no intention of getting in his way. They hadn't seen him get this excited about anything since his family's road trip to southern California during his junior year in high school. "I'll get started on the sewing right after breakfast," his mother assured him. "But you and your father need to get to work figuring out that emblem."

By the time the cows had been let out and their trough filled, and Clark had taken his usual three-hundred-mile-per-hour patrol of the fields to ensure nothing had been damaged during the night, it was already well into the morning. While Martha got to work at her sewing machine delicately attaching the cape to his shirt (Clark had had to heat up the needle until it was almost red-hot in order to push it through the fabric), Jonathan and Clark had gone to work up in Clark's loft trying to design a suitable stylized letter S for the front of the costume. Jonathan had rejected Clark's first design as "too spacey," while Clark found his dad's initial plan "way too small, and kinda feminine." This, of course, had prompted Jonathan to make a design that was far too large and far too bold for anything short of a Mardi Gras float. As Clark said, "Dad, I could see that thing through a lead wall." Clark's second effort, however, had come off as too futuristic in his father's eyes, so that one was set aside too. It was on Clark's third effort that he finally came up with something that both he and his father could agree on. The "S" was wider than it was tall, and seemed to curl back on itself like some kind of serpent – an image helped along by the stylized bumps at the tips of the letter. It bulged wider in other places than others. To Clark, it seemed strong, bold, and courageous. To his father, it was perfect.

The two brought the design to Martha, who had just finished up adding the cape to Clark's old shirt; however, as they arrived she had to inform them of some bad news.

"Clark, I don't think this belt design around the middle is going to work out. The only way I can do it is to sew the pieces on, and it'll look sloppy. I think we have to come up with another idea. Saying that," she reached down for something beneath her feet, "I found this."

And with a flourish, she pulled out a pair of red boxer brief trunks.

Clark groaned. _Loudly_.

"Mom, you can't be serious! There's no way I can go around wearing a pair of underwear on my outside! I'll look like an idiot! I mean, if Spider-Man gets ridiculed at just for wearing his outfit, I'll be laughed off the planet if I go out in those things!"

Martha Kent took on the stony, hurt look that made Clark instantly regret his words. "First of all, Clark, you are not Spider-Man. Spider-Man is a fictional creation, from a comic book. You are a real, flesh and blood person – not a movie character. Secondly, that costume will look far too blue without something in the middle to break it up. And this was the best thing I could come up with, goddamn it!"

Clark looked meekly at the floor. "Okay, Ma. It's fine. The trunks will look great on it."

His mother smiled sweetly – too sweetly for Clark's taste in the situation – back at him. "I'll try to make it look a bit better, hon. Spice it up, add some color. Trust me – I'll make it work."

Clark managed to suppress his sigh of resignation – he knew any further sign of protest would only further anger his mother. Still, there was a hint of his reservations in his voice. "All right, Mom – I trust you."

The rest of the costume went quickly after that. While Martha began sewing the emblem onto the shirt of the outfit, Clark and his dad heat-molded the red leather around the younger man's feet in the barn. They considered adding a full sole with heel to the boots, but decided against it; it would be hard to wear them under Clark's shoes that way, and besides, it wasn't like he really needed it, did he? The underwear was the last thing to go onto the pants; Ma Kent, in her stylistic wisdom, had decided to add a belt loop to them in order to string an old belt from her son's baseball pants around them; the yellow almost perfectly matched that of the emblem's negative space, and as she said, "it takes a bit of the emphasis away from your crotch."

"Mom – never say that again, okay?" Clark said as he blushed.

Jonathan tried to steer the conversation back in its desired direction. "So, honey, we all finished? Everything done?"

Martha, beaming with pride, passed the neatly folded costume over to her son. "Clark just needs to try it on."

Clark grasped the package in his hands. The crimson S on top seemed to stare into his soul. _You think you can handle this, Kent?_ He imagined it saying. _Throw me on, and we'll see what you can really do._

A thin smile cracked across Clark's lips. This was one challenge he had been looking forward to meeting. Confidently, he strode out through the living room, up the stairs and into his room, where he began to change.

Blue spandex for blue denim. The cling of the fabric felt tight around his genitals, and it took a minute to make it comfortable.

Red dress boots for yellow work ones. The leather clung to his feet like a second skin.

Blue longsleeves for a white tee. He tugged the cape over his shoulder, and let it fall towards the ground. The outfit was complete.

Clark turned towards the mirror, and nearly did a double take at himself. The costume made him look older, stronger – tougher. His chest seemed to swell in the outfit, making him look even more heroic. The bold colors seemed to leap out at him in the reflection. He began to smile as he surveyed himself, but caught himself. Something didn't seem quite right. It took him a moment, but then he realized what it was – his hair. With his right hand, he reached up and coiled one of his forelocks around his index finger, then let it spring loose. The lock fell across his forehead into a shape that, at first glance, almost looked like the letter S.

Now, Clark smiled.

"Mom? Dad?"

Jonathan and Martha whirled at the sound of their son's voice – to see a stranger standing behind them. This…caped man, with his bulging muscles, unruly forelock and flashy outfit…he couldn't be their Clark, could he? Their little Clarkish, who used to play hide-and-seek with them in the barn; their little boy who had come home crying one day from school because some bullies had knocked him down and taken his lunch; their young son who it had taken thirteen years to summon up the courage to kiss the girl next door, this couldn't be him, could it?

"What do you think?" Clark's eyes stayed away from theirs – he could sense the pride they felt as it was, and knew that seeing it in their eyes would only make him blush red enough to match his cape. But, after several long seconds, when no sound ever came, he had to look up – at which point he saw his two parents, on the brink of tears.

"No, don't cry!" Clark exclaimed as he wrapped his arms around them in the biggest hug he could summon. "Please don't cry. I'll take it off, I'll never wear it again if it makes you cry."

"No, Clark," his father said as Jonathan put his own arms around his son. "We're crying because you look so perfect in it. Because…well, if you ever have kids some day, son, and you finally realize what they're put on earth for, you just might cry too."

Clark smiled at that, a smile that broke out wide across his face.

"Thank you, guys," he whispered.


	11. Decision

It had been his dad's idea to make sure that the costume didn't get in the way of any of his powers by testing it out – "putting it through his paces," was how Jonathan had put it. While it had seemed to Clark that some of the powers wouldn't much be affected by it (after all, how would changing your shirt affect how well you can hear?), his father had insisted that they go through everything. Heat, X-ray, thermoscopic and telescopic visions went first – no problems. Super-hearing – no difference, as expected. His strength still worked fine; the costume didn't restrict his movements at all, which had been Clark's worry. He'd been worried that the costume wouldn't be protected by his invulnerability, but it turned out – one broken axe later – that his fears were unfounded. Leaving only two powers left.

This was why Clark – _Superman_, he told himself – found himself next to the family truck, crouching in the driveway like a sprinter on the blocks waiting for the gun.

"Just run down to Ginger Lane outside of town and come back," his mother said. "Don't go too fast right away – if the cape flies off, I want to know how fast you were going when it did."

_Well, it's not like I have a speedometer,_ Clark managed to keep to himself. Something his mother had never quite understood was that he'd never really known _how_ fast he was going while running – he only knew he was going _fast_. There weren't many things on the planet that could keep up with him when he was hauling ass – and the few that were fast enough weren't found in Kansas. The only time he had any real idea was when he'd timed himself running along some known distance – something he used to do about every other month back in high school. For a kid who hadn't ever been able to race others his own age for fear of giving away his secret, racing against a clock had been at least some way to gauge himself.

_There was always that stretch of Highway 45_, he reminisced. The week before he'd started high school, he'd run the twenty-four mile loop that started and ended at his house in just under 23 minutes by the stopwatch he'd left at the barn. By the beginning of sophomore year, he'd done it in 2 minutes, 38 seconds. October of junior year, 61 seconds – he'd run it three times in disbelief that he couldn't crack the one minute barrier, but never got better than that. Finally, in the autumn of his senior year, he demolished the course in 42 seconds. Since then, he hadn't had the chance to do it.

_Well, what better way to test out the new suit than with an old run?_

He smiled.

With a rush of air and the crack of a sonic boom, the man who had always been known as Clark Kent exploded down the Kansas highway like a runaway missile. His red boots barely touched the ground, skimming across the tarmac with just enough force to maintain traction against it. Each foot only hit the ground every fifty feet or so – an event which occurred well more than thirty times every second. His red cape whipped behind him, flapping furiously in the gale. Clark rounded the turnoff at almost eight times the speed of sound, his inside hand brushing against the ground to help him turn. It cut a path twenty feet long in the shoulder of the road. Powering onto the last straightaway, Clark took the barest fraction of a moment to survey the road ahead. Not a car or truck to be seen; no houses or buildings within miles of the road. Nothing to worry about hitting or disturbing.

With a surge of energy, Clark pushed himself ahead even faster now, screaming down the highway as fast as he ever had run in his life. The world to his sides melted into a vista of green and brown – all that there was now was the road ahead of him. And for a brief second, there was nothing in the universe that Clark would have taken in exchange for that moment.

For the first time since he could remember, he remembered how much he loved being himself.

He slowed down to the speed of sound as he rounded the turn up the drive to the Kent farm to keep from startling the cows (his father had raised hell the time he had caught Clark trying to herd them back to the barn with his sonic booms) and kept slowing as he went up the driveway. By the time he got to the house, he had managed to bring himself to a polite jog, which he stopped right in front of his parents. He smiled quaintly to them as he did so.

"I think it works fine, Mom," he said with exceptional understatement.

* * *

The suit did more than work fine, Clark admitted to himself as he soared gently through the clouds. It worked amazingly. It didn't itch, didn't ride up in any of the wrong places, and didn't get in his way. It looked good – not just in the this-guy-pumps-iron sense, but there was just something about the way it looked on him that always made him look twice at it whenever he caught his own reflection. Clark Kent had never been a prideful person – even as a man, few things could make him turn away and blush faster than a complement – but there was something about the suit that commanded attention. No, more than commanded attention. _Demanded_ it.

_It's almost as if,_ Clark thought, _I was born to wear this suit._

A shiver went down his spine that had nothing to do with the -30 degree temperature of the air at 25,000 feet. The idea of wearing the thing for the rest of his life was, for some reason, not one that he relished. Ever since that day many years before when he had fallen to earth amongst fire from the heavens, Clark had been fighting against what the universe seemed to have planned for him. Whether it was dying on Krypton or conquering the world, he had never been one to go along with it without a fight. So far, he had managed to dodge every bullet "destiny" had fired his way. Was this really any different?

_But every time before, Ma and Pa showed me the right thing to do. Whatever it was that felt right was what they believed I should do. If this is what they think is right – if this is what I'm supposed to do with my life – isn't that different from whatever Jor-El wanted?_

Then why did it feel so bad?

_Once I show up anywhere with this flashy suit, everyone will expect me to save them. No matter where they are, they'll wonder, "Where's Superman? Why won't he save us?" Anything I can do will be more than would happen otherwise, though. If I could just convince them well enough…_

How was that going to happen? Clark Kent, not even old enough to buy beer or wine, try and convince the whole wide world that he wasn't their personal savior? Even Jesus Christ waited until he was thirty-three before he began his public service.

_I'm not ready for this._

The thought stopped him cold over the peaks of the Rockies.

_That's what the feeling is. It's not that I don't want to do this – I do, I do so badly – but it's not quite time. I'm not ready._

Clark stared off towards the horizon for a long minute. On every side of him sat a thousand miles of America, stretched out even as far as his eyes could see. The wind blew across his face as he hovered in the air, whipping at his ears. He listened closer, and sounds from the Earth below began to become clear: the engines of trucks downshifting as they climbed up and down the mountain passes, grumbling their discomfort. The sound of breeze flowing through the aspen trees, rustling their leaves. A freight train laboring as it struggled its way through the mountains. The screech of a bobcat; the howl of a coyote. But most apparent of all were the voices of the people; even there, above the sharp peaks, they were there. Climbers, rangers, ranchers, drivers. From four miles up, Clark could hear every conversation for almost ten miles around. People with lives all their own – people who might one day need help. People who needed hope.

_I will do the best I can for them. But right now, the best thing I can do is be Clark Kent._

* * *

"I'm not ready for this yet."

Jonathan and Martha looked at their son, perplexed. "What do you mean, Clark?"

Clark sighed, a sigh his mother knew well. It was his way of expressing his disappointment in himself – and was usually her cue to come to his rescue for a change. "I feel like such a fink, but…I don't think I'm ready for this much responsibility just yet. There's still plenty I want to do before I take on the responsibility of saving the world in front of the cameras." He chuckled at himself. "I mean, I'm only twenty years old. Most kids my age are still getting wasted at frat parties and stressing out over college exams – I really don't think I'm ready to be a superpowered celebrity just yet." Clark's eyes lifted from the floor to meet those of his parents. "I'm sorry, guys. You must think I'm just a fink, or something – and to tell you the truth, I'm not sure I blame you."

To Clark's surprise, his parents smiled at him. His mother took his hand in hers. "That is, perhaps, one of the wisest things I've ever heard you say – and I've heard you say quite a few."

Jonathan patted his son on the shoulder. "Son, one of the toughest things about having power – of any sort – is making sure you're ready to use it. If you don't feel ready for this, there's probably a damn good reason – and it means that when you do feel ready, you'll be even better at it. Because you'll be prepared.

"I never got the chance to do quite what I wanted to with my life, Clark. I had to stay here on the farm to help out my father. Now, looking back, there aren't many things I'd do differently – but I'd never want to put you in a place where it feels like I'm forcing you into something you don't want to do. Your life will always be your own, Clark – it was the day you dropped into our lives, and it'll still be long after we're gone."

For a second, it felt to Clark like someone had injected liquid kryptonite into his veins. His father's mention of his own mortality in such a direct manner has shocked him straight to his core. _I've never heard Pa talk like that before._

For better or worse, neither of his parents noticed his sudden freeze; instead, they came in and closed around him for a full-family hug. As they held him close, Clark felt his trepidation melt away; no matter how old he was, the feel of his parents' arms around him always made him feel better.

_I'm just being paranoid – just like always. "Stupid Clark Kent, always too worried about everybody else and never enough about himself."_

Clark smiled as he remembered the words one of his oldest friends had once said to him – a smile which quickly turned into a deepening realization of how far apart he'd grown from the boy who had once been his best friend in the whole world.

Martha Kent looked up at her son – she knew something was on his mind. "Clark, honey? What's wrong?"

Her son smiled back at her. "It's nothing. Just…I just thought of something that made me think about Pete."

Martha glanced over at her husband, who gave her a familiar look – his _I'll handle this one_ look. "Son," he said, "have you ever considered being the one to make the first move?"

Clark shook his head, a look of sadness sliding over his face. "Pete left because he didn't feel comfortable around me. I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable again. I figure he'll let me know if he's ever ready to be my friend again."

Jonathan laid his hand on his son's shoulder, forcing Clark to make eye contact with his father. "Pete didn't leave because he wasn't your friend anymore – he left because he cared about your well being."

Martha took up the reins of the conversation. "He gave up on everything he had ever known in order to protect your secret. I'd say that's the actions of a true friend if anything is."

"Go see him. I bet it'll make you both feel better."

Clark looked at his parents before glancing over at the kitchen clock. They were right; _they usually are_. "I'll be back by dinner."

His mother smiled at him. "No rush."


	12. Brothers

The last three and a half years had been fair to Pete Ross. Having moved to Wichita for his senior year with his mother, he found himself isolated. No father (the divorce had left his dad bitterly back in Smallville) and no brothers (all of whom had headed off to college years earlier). All his friends had been left back in Smallville too, and trying to break into a new school his senior year had not been easy – especially a upper-middle class school in his new upper-middle class – i.e. _white_ - neighborhood. His skin color had never really been an issue back in Smallville, but here, it seemed all too apparent that the people in this school judged him at first glance on his race. So, Pete had been all too happy to grab his diploma as soon as possible and head off to the University of Colorado at Denver come the next September. College had treated him better; in a bigger city, people had been more accepting, and there had been far more to do in terms of social activities.

But, every now and then, Pete found his thoughts drifting back to the sleepy Kansas town where he had spent his first seventeen years.

He thought of Lana Lang, the most beautiful girl in school who had caught the attention of every guy within the same time zone as her and someone who had grown into a close friend as they years went by; he had broken down and cried for the first time since he was thirteen when he heard that she had died.

He thought of Chloe Sullivan, the perky, cute girl reporter with her bleached blond hair and soft skin – the girl he'd been in love with since eight grade, when she'd come to Smallville. Every once in a while, he wrote her a letter without a return address, letting her know that he was all right.

But most of all, he thought of his best friend, Clark. A guy who had stood by him through thick and thin, who had put his own life in danger more than once to help him. A man who had been as much of a brother to him as the two siblings who shared his DNA. A man who had told him a secret about himself, something so incredible Pete would never have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes. A man who Pete had betrayed.

Oh, he knew Clark would have never seen it that way. Clark would have just nodded in his slightly doofy way and said, Pete, you gotta do whatever you think is best. I trust you. The one thing he knew Clark couldn't do, though, was understand. Clark Kent, superhuman powers or not, had never run away from anything in his life – especially his friends and family.

(Well, okay, Pete told himself, there was that one time when he ran off to Metropolis after sophomore year, but that was certainly understandable – he was under the influence of what amounted to a powerful drug. Besides, he believed he had been doing what he had to so as to protect his loved ones. Even when he was running away, he was doing the right thing, Pete grimly thought.)

But Pete had worried that he wasn't strong enough for his friend – that he would give away that secret one day, and that all Clark's world would come crashing down because of it, and it would all be Pete's fault. So he went with his mother off to Wichita, then to Colorado, with every intention of never seeing his friend again.

Oh, Clark had tried to contact him – he had left messages, sent letters to Pete's house all throughout senior year. Pete's mother had pleaded with her son to keep up with his old friend, but he resolutely refused; there was no way she could understand.

So now, in the second week of August of the year 2007, Pete had gone a little over three years and three months without seeing the man who he respected more than any other, the man who had changed his life in more ways than one. Pete had been at his mother's house since May, and had spent much of the time sitting inside flipping through television channels

So, when the doorbell rang, Pete never would have guessed who was standing on the door when he opened it.

"Hey, Pete," Clark said softly. "Long time no see."

Pete was frozen. For what seemed like an eternity, he just stared at his oldest friend, as if he was just a trick of the light that would go away if he stared long enough. Then, as if suddenly jump-stared into motion by a car battery, he wrapped his arms around Clark in a massive bear hug.

"So, how's life been treating you, man?" Clark asked as he surveyed Pete's living room: the bigscreen TV with attached Playstation 3, the four-piece leather sectional, the gunmetal Sony home theater system and the cherry coffee table all seemed such a contrast to the worn couch and cheap stereo in Clark's own living room. _No doubt a product of the alimony_, Clark thought before frowning inwardly. _I wonder if Pete thinks that way too._

Pete ambled in carrying a can of Vanilla Coke in either hand, one of which he passed off to Clark. "It's been all right. I haven't been threatened by any homicidal maniacs in the last couple years; haven't been beaten up or shot at, either."

Clark smiled. "That makes one of us."

Thankfully in Clark's mind, this managed to eke a smile out of Pete. "How's the big hero's life been? You still fighting off meteor freaks and billionaires?"

Clark took a sip from his drink. "Actually, I moved onto Kryptonian villains and witches before heading on to organized crime and finally settling on dictators and fascist leaders." After he'd said it, Clark was amazed that he'd managed to get it out with a straight face. Replaying it over in his head, it sounded incredibly hokey.

Apparently Pete thought so too, as he burst out into chuckles after a moment. "Get outta town, Clark. Witches? Alien bad guys? Man, you've been watching too much TV if you thought I was gonna by that – even considering our lives."

Clark dropped his hand on Pete's shoulder. "Pete – we have a lot of catching up to do.

For about two hours, Clark went over just about every detail he could think of about the last couple years of his life. Pete, to his credit, took it all in stride – he'd seen his share of weird things during his tenure in Smallville, so most of it he was able to take in. But not quite everything.

"Okay, let me see if I've got this witch thing straight. Lana bought a spell book from the Internet that belonged to some ancient witch ancestor of hers," he said.

Clark nodded. "Countess Isobel Thoreau, or something, I was never quite sure."

"And she helped two of her old friends take over the bodies of Chloe and Chloe's cousin before attacking you in your loft, robbing you of your powers and stealing some Kryptonian artifact that you had hidden in the cave. But you managed to get your powers back and free them from the spell.

"Then, later on, you and Lana went to China to look for another of these artifacts but were captured by the Chinese and tortured, causing Lana's witch side to reappear and go Crouching Tiger on your ass all over an ancient temple.

"But finally, Lana was rid of the curse when she fulfilled the prophecy and killed her ex-boyfriend's mother, who as you said, bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman."

Clark matched the retelling against the version in his head, then decided they were close enough. "That's pretty much it."

The two stared off into the distance for a moment. Then, Pete turned to Clark.

"Chloe's cousin – was she hot?"

Clark laughted. _Pete, you always manage to get down to the important stuff, don't you._ "Yeah, she was. Tall, too – she had to be 5'8", minimum. Kind of bitchy, and spunky as anyone you've ever met. A little annoying, too. She tended to use up the shampoo and not yell anyone, which really pissed me off. I'd end up in the shower, all clean except for my hair, and I'd find out there's no shampoo."

Pete blinked hard and held up a finger. "Whoa whoa whoa, Clark. You were _living_ with this girl?"

"Oh, didn't I mention that? She came and stayed with us for about four months after she got kicked out of college. It was the longest four months of my life – I couldn't use my powers around the farm without looking over my shoulder. She kicked me out of my own bedroom – I had to sleep on the goddamn couch!"

Pete looked incredulous. "So you're telling me that there was this babe living – _living_! – in your house with you, sleeping in _your_ bed and staring at your stupid Jurassic Park posters and model cars, and basically always around. Please, Clark, tell me you tapped that."

Clark looked away sheepishly. "Well…not exactly."

Pete veritably exploded off the couch. "Jesus Christ, Clark! You spend four months with a hottie living under your roof, and you don't do anything! What is _wrong_ with you? I mean, did you at least see her naked or something?"

"What, you mean like X-ray her in the bedroom?"

"_Anything_!"

Clark smiled devilishly. "Well, there was one time when I _accidentally_ walked in on her when she was getting out of the shower…"

Pete grinned. "Now we're talking! So, how was she?"

Clark just whistled long and low with raised eyebrows.

Pete just shook his head, still smiling as he sat back down and reached for his soda – the third of the afternoon. "Man oh man, Clark. Man oh man. I still can't believe you didn't do anything."

_Well, _Clark allowed himself to think in the privacy of his own head, _it wasn't like there weren't times when I wanted to. _On more than one late night occasion, when there had been nobody downstairs but Clark and a box of Kleenex, Clark had managed to keep a careful ear trained for sounds from above while letting his imagination run as free as it pleased. He could feel her pressed against him in his mind, the tingle of her against his invulnerable skin as she rubbed her hand up his chest, the soft firmness of her breasts cradled in his hands… More than once, he'd found himself having to stop for a minute in order to quell the fire which seemed ready to burst from his eyes – something, strangely, it hadn't done for any of the other girls he had fantasized about before or since.

_Why lie? It was the best I never had, _he thought.

Indeed, he had to shake away a faint tingle in his pupils even now just remembering Lois Lane. Despite all her antagonizing of him, he still felt (on some level) attracted to her. Maybe he'd managed to push it away on some level because he didn't want to hurt Chloe by ever doing something to Lois. Maybe he was afraid that he'd let his passions get out of hand, and somebody would get hurt.

_Or maybe she was just annoying_.

Clark's eyes cast down to a picture sitting in a frame alongside the couch, which prompted a smile. He reached down and grabbed it.

"I've been looking for this picture for ages now," he said, his eyes never leaving the image.

"Yeah, it was really the best picture of us I had."

Clark still remembered the day the photo was from. _Halloween dance, junior year. _Clark and Pete had decided to actually put some thought into their outfits for the annual Costume Dance, and in a burst of originality, Pete had decided they should go "Miami Vice-style." Pete had managed to scrounge up his oldest brother's pink suit from prom years before to go as Tubbs, while Clark had convinced his mother to buy him a white jacket so he could look like Don Johnson. In the picture, the two of them were both wearing their "cop faces" (the most serious scowls they could muster at the moment) and trying to look as badass as possible – all the way down to their matching ten dollar aviator sunglasses.

_Those were better days_, Clark thought. _Even with all the weird things that happened in our lives, we were still innocent then. Sixteen years old, and it was all fun and games._

"Life was better then, Pete," he said with a sigh.

To his surprise, Pete scoffed. "No it wasn't, Clark. It just looks better in the rear view mirror than out the side window. You don't remember all those nights you sat up in your loft, pining for Lana and staring out your telescope? Red kryptonite and mind control making you wonder if anybody was really the person they acted like? Hell, not one but _two_ Luthors all but living next door? Sure, life seemed simpler back then. But it wasn't better. If there's anything these last couple years have taught me, it's that you can't spend the rest of your life staring over your shoulder at the past. You have to keep looking ahead if you want to keep moving forwards."

Clark looked at his friend, slightly amazed at his speech. "Wow."

Pete looked away. "Sorry. Was that too corny?"

"No, actually – it was just right. I didn't know you had that kind of thing in you, dude. You ever think about becoming a motivational speaker or something?"

"Actually, it's only been the last year or two I've been able to bust that. I started getting involved in student government at college first year, and you know what?"

"What?"

"I really like it. Thinking there might be a career in it."

Clark raised his eyebrows. "I don't there's much career in student government past senior year, buddy."

"Very funny, Clark. If you weren't invulnerable, I'd hit you."

"Seriously, though – government? That'd be cool."

"Yeah, it would. It'd be a chance for me to actually be able to help people like you do, Clark. I mean, I may not be able to smash up African dictators' palaces, but I could be one of the guys who orders the sanctions. What about you?"

Clark sat back in the couch. "Well, I'd much rather have something nonviolent like sanctions rather than a military takeover of some country. Too much violence that way."

"That's not what I meant. What do you think you might want to do?"

Clark sighed. "That's something I've been thinking about a lot lately. I've thought about it, and I decided I'm going public – well, not me, technically. More like…another side of me."

Pete stared at his friend. "You mean, like a new identity?"

"More like a dual one. You know, have one side who can fly around and save people, while Clark Kent gets to live a normal life. My mom even made up an outfit for me to wear when I'm being super."

Pete smiled. " 'Being super' – I like that. Have you thought about what you want to call yourself?"

It was Clark's turn to smile. "Yeah, I have."

"Superman."

Pete weighed the name in his head for a minute. "Not bad. It certainly fits," he added.

"Yeah, but do you think it's too ostentatious?"

"For anybody else? Probably. For you? No way," Pete said, before noticing the look that came over his friend's face. The one thing Clark always hated was anyone insinuating that he was better than anybody else. "Sorry, man," Pete backpedaled. "That didn't come out right."

"I understand, Pete." Clark's head hung down for a second. "I know what you meant. It's just…tough, being different sometimes, y'know?"

Pete clapped his hand on Clark's shoulder, causing his friend to turn and look at him.

"Yes, Clark. I do."

"I also know that you have stronger morals and convictions than anyone I've ever met. Powers or no powers, I bet you'd fight off half the world just to pull a little kid out of traffic. You have always been a great man, Clark, and it's not your superpowers that make it so. It's your soul that makes you extraordinary. That's what's different about you, more than anything else – the man inside the Superman. And that's something you should never be ashamed of."

Clark looked over at his friend, who he'd never known to be capable of such profound statements. _He really has changed. _

"I'm not going to become Superman just yet, Pete. I don't think I'm ready for the responsibility. I know that sounds like I'm chickening out, but…I don't want to get into something more than I'm ready for at this point in my life."

Pete nodded. "You gotta do what you think is right."

Clark smiled wryly. "You know, you would make one helluva politician."

Pete clapped his friend on the back. "All in good time, my man. All in good time."

Clark stood to leave, and Pete gave him a hug. "It was good to see you again, man. I'll try not to be so distant this time around."

Clark nodded. "And I'll be sure to tell all my friends to vote for Pete Ross for President."

Pete snorted at that one. "Yeah, sure. Right around the time I marry Chloe."

Clark gave him one last smile. "You never know what's coming around the bend, pal."

Then, with a wink and a nod, Clark was gone.


	13. Resolution

As late summer rolled around, talk in the Kent household began to revolve around more normal topics of conversation. Preparations for the harvest; though Clark would be back at school by then, he assured his parents that no matter where he was, he would zip back to give them a hand with it. Where Clark would be going was also a topic of some concern in the family; he had decided that there were a few too many memories in Metropolis for his liking, and that he'd rather head further away from Kansas. "It's not like I can't come home fast enough if you really need me," he pointed out. He had sent in transfer applications to schools on both coasts, deciding to aim for something in a city environment rather than the noble grasslands of his home. Talk turned to sports; the Broncos' and the Chiefs' chances of reaching the Superbowl were, as always, a matter of concern. Current events; the policies of the Bush administration and Congress, and the inane babble about celebrities and flavors-of-the-week. Everything seemed, once again, to be normal.

Then, with only a couple weeks left, responses began coming in from the colleges. Clark had seen this as an opportunity for a completely fresh start to his life, and as part of that, he didn't want anything to do with the less pleasant parts of his life. Metropolis was something he had come to include in that column. Between Lana's death, Lex Luthor and the fact that he'd spent every day of his freshman year paranoid that someone would recognize him from his summer of partying and causing trouble while under the influence. It was not a part of his life that he was proud of. Half the reason he'd ended up going to Met U was to be closer to Lana – something which was no longer an issue. And now that he could fly, Clark could be home in less than a minute from just about anywhere in the country if he was needed. He needed to start again.

He had sent out half a dozen transfer applications to schools across the country, from Los Angeles to Boston, and met back with mixed response. Some of them offered a curt "thanks, but no thanks;" others were more than happy to accept a straight "A" student from rural Kansas, but weren't able to put up enough financial aid to satisfy his needs. In the end, it came down to two schools on opposite sides of the nation

"Well," Clark said as he sat down at the counter, "I've made up my mind."

His parents turned to him, excited. "And?"

"Not Southern California."

This came as little shock to his parents. After their trip to L.A. two years ago for Martha's aunt's funeral – when Clark found himself clashing with his cousin Phillip and his rather _electric _personality – Clark had said that he couldn't really ever see himself living there. Great place to visit, but I'd never want to set down roots there, he'd said. "It just didn't feel right?" Jonathan asked.

Clark did, as his father had thought he would, nod in response. "I don't think I could live in Los Angeles – no one really cares there. Everyone's so incredibly apathetic…it's just frustrating. I think I'd go nuts in a month."

Jonathan nodded in understanding. To be honest, he hadn't seen his son out at USC, either; though he wouldn't have minded having an excuse to travel to L.A. every once in a while (particularly in January), Jonathan knew that Clark just wouldn't fit in very well in the City of Angels.

_Then again, _he thought, _they're certainly used to odd things out there._

Martha didn't want to tap-dance around the issue any longer. "So that means…?"

Clark just nodded. "It's New York University."

To be honest, Clark had always liked New York City; it was one of the few cities that felt big enough for him to feel at home there, a place so big that somebody couldn't ever do everything in it. He'd always thought, deep down inside, that it should probably be the place called Metropolis – after all, it was the biggest city in the country.

"I think that it just feels right, Mom. When I went and checked it out…it just felt really good."

"Plus, you'll have Chloe there, too," Martha added.

Clark could have sworn he heard a subtext to his mother's voice, but he didn't call her on it. "Yeah. It'll be nice to have a _friend_ there."

Martha smiled into her shirt, her son's intention noted, before turning back to her family.

"Well, Clark, now that we know where you're going and with the end of summer coming up soon, we still have one more issue to address in regards to your…secret identity."

"What's that," Clark asked?

"How we're going to keep it a secret."

Clark snapped his fingers. "I actually just thought of something the other day," he said. "Hold on." In a burst of speed he vanished up the staircase, only to return moments later with a hairbrush and a suit jacket. As his parents watched, he quickly combed his hair down in front and threw the old jacket over his shoulders before turning around again.

Jonathan and Martha were not impressed. He cocked an eyebrow at his son. "That's your disguise, Clark?"

Clark looked hurt. "Well, yeah – you know, I'd keep my hair looking different, and wear baggy clothes and suit jackets and stuff to hide my muscles." He pretended to flex his bicep, and gave a fake grin as if to convince his parents.

Jonathan chuckled. "Son, it's a good idea, but I don't think that people are that dumb -despite how it might seem sometimes. If somebody saw you on the street, it might work, but for the people you'll be with every day…it's just not enough. I'm sorry."

Clark slumped down into his chair. "Great. Maybe I should just forget the whole damn thing!"

Martha looked at her son. "Now don't give up so easily – we just haven't given it quite enough thought. You've got a good place to start with the change in dress, but you still need something else to complete the disguise. Something that changes your face somewhat."

Clark looked up. "Like a mustache, or something?"

Martha shook her head. "No, that wouldn't work; you'd have to use a fake one, and that would stick out like a sore thumb. You need something else." Her eyes lit upon Jonathan's reading glasses, sitting on the kitchen counter. She scooped them up and passed them off to her son. "Here – put these on."

Clark looked at his mother incredulously. "You're kidding."

"Just try it."

_If it'll make her happy…_Clark placed the glasses on his face, adjusting them to fit better on his ears before opening his eyes.

"Whoa!" he said as he felt his eyes tense looking through the lenses. He remembered the time during his junior year when an errant heat vision-kryptonite reaction had left him temporarily blinded; he'd had to wear glasses for a couple days afterwards, and he'd felt stupid the entire time. He'd been glad to get rid of the things once his eyesight had come back. _Wouldn't it be ironic_, he mused, _if I ended up having to wear them in order to live my life after all?_

Clark glanced up at his parents through the blur. He could barely read their expressions. "Well, what do you guys think?"

His parents nodded. "It works," said Jonathan. "So long as you always make sure to dress down and keep your hair combed down like that when you're not out…super-heroing, with the glasses you could pull it off."

"But," his mother stressed, "you can't ever let on to anybody that you might have another identity – either as Clark Kent or Superman. So long as you don't hide your face in costume, nobody is apt to suspect anything."

"I hope you're right," Clark sighed. "But at least I'll have plenty of time to get my Clark act together before I go out and start playing super-hero."

His parents gave each other a concerned look, something Clark didn't fail to notice. "What it it?" he asked.

His father sighed. "Well, son, when you said you wanted to wait a while before putting on that costume…we thought maybe you were being a little hasty in your decision."

Clark felt the ire rise up his back. "Excuse me?" he asked, a bit of edge coming into his voice.

"What your father's trying to say," his mother added hastily, "is that there's plenty of good that needs to be done out there right now in the world. The kind of things that only you can do."

"We don't want to pressure you, but Clark…you've taken this upon yourself, and this kind of responsibility…it's not the sort of thing to take lightly."

Angrily, Clark leapt upwards out of his chair. "And you think I am? You think I'm just treating this like some kind of big joke – like it's the school play or something? Believe me, I am not. I'm the one with the great power and the great responsibility – I'm the one who knows what it's like, not you! You two always said that I should do whatever feels right to me – to follow my heart and do the right thing. Well, this is the right thing in my mind. This is what's right for _me_. And that's all I know how to do." Clark's voice began to rise to a shout. "I need the chance to have a normal life for a while. You're both lucky – that's a choice you never had to make! You were just born that way – _ordinary_!"

A long, deathly silence filled the air of the house as his last words settled in. Martha stared at the floor, shell-shocked; Jonathan, on the other hand, just looked at his son with eyes brimming with sadness and disappointment. Clark felt a cold chill settle over himself as the force of his words caught up with him.

_Oh, god. What have I done?_

"Just…ordinary?"

Jonathan's voice was barely above a whisper as his eyes seemed to bore deep into his son's soul.

The words came again, louder this time. "Just ordinary? Is that what you really think of us, Clark? After all these years, after all we've done for you, we're just ordinary human scum, is that it?" His almost cruelly even tone began to shift upwards into a shout. "Well, excuse us for being mortal! Excuse us for being vulnerable! Excuse us for not having some higher destiny or falling for a goddamn rocketship for a planet a thousand light-years away!"

"Dad-"

"No, no, Clark! It's good to know what you finally think – after all these years, that your mother and I are just poor peasants working our fingers to the bone like everyone else. We're not good enough to leap buildings in a single bound, so we just have to stay down here in the dirt with all the other animals! Well, I for one am glad I know my place now. Come now, Martha, let's be off – the mighty one here _must_ be tired of our presence by now."

"Jonathan, that's enough-"

"It's never enough, Martha!" He looked towards his wife for a second, his snapping words cutting her off and shutting her down before her argument even had a chance to be heard. "You know as well as I do how hard it was to raise Clark. The sacrifices we had to make. And I'm not just talking about the deals with the Jor-Els and the Lionel Luthors of the world." Jonathan's steely gaze swung back towards Clark, who just stared back with clenched jaw and tightening fists. "Did you know that we had to sell your grandmother's wedding dress in order to pay for your eight-grade field trip to Montana? Or how your mother and I cut back to two meals a day when you were in high school so there would always be enough food for you? Did any of those extraordinary senses ever tell you that? No – because you were always too _fucking_ busy with your own problems to _notice_!"

"SHUT UP!" The hateful words roared from Clark's mouth in a tempest as he turned and shot from the room like a bullet, sending the screen door flying into the yard as he did so. His slipstream scattered his financial aid applications across the kitchen like autumn leaves. One of them fell into Jonathan's hands, and he grasped it slowly, looking it up and down as he read over it.

Name: CLARK JOSEPH KENT.

Mother: MARTHA CLARK KENT.

Father: JONATHAN SAMUEL KENT.

Date of Birth: 04/30/1987.

_Martha always said everyone should have a birthday in the springtime,_ Jonathan heard inside his head. _Didn't Clark always deserve the best?_

_Yes, he did. And he still does. You have no idea what he's going through, Jonny boy. Right now, he needs you as much as ever, and what did you just do?_

_You drove him away. And this time, for all you know, he may never come back._

Jonathan looked up at his wife in horror. "Martha," he groaned, "what have I done?"

------------------------------------------------------- 

Ten miles above Kansas and climbing fast, Clark punched a hole through the atmosphere at speeds even rockets couldn't reach. He felt the wind tear at his face, and he welcomed it – it felt like it was blasting his pain away. The puffy clouds of summer fell far below as the sky around him turned black and the stars begin to shine through, and Clark sucked in one last breath of oxygen before crossing through the imaginary line that astronomers had long since decided would separate the sky from the final frontier. A flash of orange in front of him caught Clark's eye, and he was upon it by the time he realized what it was: an old fuel tank from the space shuttle, long since abandoned into orbit above the earth. Its engineers had intended it to circle the planet for a thousand years before finally falling back to the ground, hopefully burning up from re-entry.

But they never counted upon a twenty-year old Kryptonian plowing through it at forty thousand miles an hour.

The tank shattered soundlessly in the abyss as Clark smashed through it, breaking it into thousands of pieces. Their course changed by his momentum, the fragments would instead float off towards the edges of the solar system. One of the pieces would eventually bounce off the first manned mission to Saturn forty years hence, delaying it for a day as the crew made repairs. Another one went on to land on the surface of the moon, only a mile and a half from the second Watchtower of the Justice League of America; a young man named Tim Drake had happened to be on duty at the time and noticed the impact, but not knowing its history, made nothing of it. And yet another piece of the tank would be found three hundred and seventeen years in the future by none other than Clark himself, having long since given up the identity of Clark Kent on Earth but still calling himself that when no one was around. Upon finding the shattered piece of space junk, the silver-haired Superman couldn't have helped but smile inwardly, wondering if in fact it had come to him by way of his rapid escape from his house after that meaningless fight with his father that they had forgiven each other for within an hour and all but forgotten by the next day. For a second there, a tear welled up on the old man's eye before boiling and freezing in the icy vacuum of space as he remembered the family, the life he had had so long ago that had made him who he was, even in what would have been the year 2324 had the Gregorian calendar still been in use. He may have been born Kal-El of Krypton, but in his heart and soul, he would always be Clark Kent of Earth.

But young Clark, of course, knew none of this as he kept flying out away from Smallville towards the infinite depths from which he had come all those years before. He was half-crazed, in that state of disbelief that comes when one's loved ones seem to have betrayed them.

_I can't believe it._

_I can't believe it._

_I cannot believe it._

The most distant man-made object in Earth orbit, an AT&T communications satellite 32,854 miles above the surface of the planet, flashed by Clark so fast he didn't even notice it. At 250,000 miles an hour, even he couldn't see anything to his sides until it was too late – and he had no intention of slowing down.

_I can't believe he said those things._

_Because if he did, that must have meant they were already there. How long has he been bottling it up? Years? Decades? That's just like Pa, keep everything bottled up inside himself until it reaches the breaking point-_

_Wait a second._

Clark stopped accelerating as a thought hit him.

_Maybe it wasn't anything so big as that. Maybe he just got mad, and said something he didn't really mean – like I did. After all, they're not "just ordinary," they're probably two of the most extraordinary, kindest, and best all-around people on the planet. But they make mistakes too, just like anybody – even me._

A wry smile cracked across his face. _Especially me._

_Just like me…they're only human._

As the August sun set over the western sky, Jonathan stared out at it from the edge of his field. It had always been his way; when he needed to think, to reflect or ponder, he had always retreated out to the edge of the fields and stared out at their seemingly endless beauty. It had always reminded him, strangely enough, of the ocean, ever since he had seen the Atlantic on a family trip to Maryland back in 1968. As he stared out at it, he looked upwards at the heavens as a prayer flowed through his mind along a channel that had been used so many times it almost felt like the oath said itself.

_God, if you're listening up there…please give me the strength to be a better man, and to help me to raise Clark as best I can. He is the greatest gift you've ever given me, and I thank you for him. Thank you for giving us such an amazing son, and help me to be the best example I can be for him._

The corn around him seemed to rustle for a moment, and Jonathan felt a breeze on his back. He smiled at it, and wasn't at all surprised when the voice spoke from behind him.

"Corn's coming up well this year." In Clark's voice was the implied message: _I'm sorry._

"Yeah, it is." Jonathan's tone was apologetic, too.

Clark clapped his hand on his father's shoulder, and the older man turned to embrace his son in a warm hug. Clark was only too happy to return the gesture, and the two men hugged long enough for Martha to come out from the house and join them.

And as the sun finally went over the horizon for over the trillionth time since the world had been created, the Kent family stood together as one, watching it go down – knowing that tomorrow it would rise again, bringing with it the challenges of a new day.

But that was life.


End file.
